


perihelion

by houselannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beautiful Golden Fools, Domestic Violence, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 116,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19027609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: London, 2020 - After Tywin Lannister's death, Jaime and Tyrion uncover their father's most precious secret: a hidden sister. Money and power intersect with family and obsession.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A fair warning: I have chosen not to give any warnings because so far it doesn't need any, but please check the tags because there will be some darker themes and instances as the story proceeds. Also, the rating will go up, I mean come on, it's Jaime and Cersei we're talking about. I will add characters as they appear, but only as long as they have an actual role in the story.  
> Now, speaking of the story. It started as a game, with me complaining about how I could never write a slowburn one for these two because how do you write slowburn between siblings that fall in love in the crib? Then this idea popped inside my head, and I decided to go with it. It has also been proven that most cases of incest happen in situations such as the one in this fanfiction.  
> This will be a multi-chapter. I have found somewhat shorter chaps help with getting the creative juices going, because you don't get bored with your own writing. So you will see shorter chapters than what I usually do in my one-shots.  
> I don't have much more to add, except enjoy, and as always thank you Ashley for being the best friend a girl could hope for.

**perihelion**    
[**noun**](https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/noun) **  
** the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is closest to the sun.

 

* * *

 

 

** PROLOGUE **

It had been a tasteful funeral, his father would have liked it. No, scratch that, he would have hated it. Tywin Lannister was not one for false courtesies and constructed speeches. All of which, had abounded throughout the whole ceremony. The event had been taken as such, an _event_ : a parade of politicians, businessmen and small time celebrities, they had not wasted a good publicity day. Jaime and Tyrion had sat in the first bench, receiving grieving guests openly _oh-so-sorry_ about their father’s passing. Jaime had counted three ‘He was a great man’, six ‘You look just like him’ – usually addressing him, but someone had had the courage to tell Tyrion as well, and his brother couldn’t help but snicker at the thought. “Do you hear that?” he’d told him, “My father’s rolling in his casket.”

Jaime was thirty-eight now, Tyrion had just recently turned thirty-four.

Tywin’s departure had been sudden, and had left a void of authority over their lives. The sudden freedom was overbearing, suffocating. Jaime was craving a fence of sorts, something to keep him grounded, something to remind him not everything was possible. A difficult feat for the richest bachelor in London, and a very handsome one at that. Not to mention, the new Lord of Casterly Rock. The moment Tywin had breathed his last, a whole new world had presented itself to Jaime Lannister, served on a golden platter.

He was to be the heir to the Lannister fortune and title, the sole leader of the competitive industry his father had dealt in: gold, glimmering and blinding. He would be a Duke.

That afternoon, when the crowd had dissipated and left them to their mourning, he and Tyrion had gathered inside Tywin’s studio. Now that he was gone, they had figured they would honour his memory by doing something he would have hated: they were going to go through his stuff. He, Jaime, was much more excited at the prospect than his little brother. After all, Tywin had been a proper father to him, whereas for Tyrion, he had been nothing short of a gaoler.  So he’d been content to sit in Tywin’s chair and prop his feet up on the desk, a last _fuck you_ to the man.

They had gone through the desk drawers first, finding the most various business documents and transactions; boring. Then Jaime had proposed they go through the cabinets, and they had found their father was a brandy man, something he wouldn’t have been caught drinking out in public. Last, but not least, Jaime had opened the safe, hidden behind an original Waterhouse piece.

“I want this,” he said, holding up the golden wristwatch he’d found in there. “Would be too big on you.”

“Classy,” Tyrion mocked, as Jaime laughed and kept rummaging through Tywin’s stuff.

Tyrion recovered an old newspaper from Tywin’s trashcan; there, on the first page, was a picture of the man most likely to be elected Prime Minister the following spring, Robert Baratheon. They knew him, but barely: the man had had some run-ins with their father, who did not seem to like him very much due to political differences. In short, Robert was Labour, the Lannisters had always been Tories.

Jaime weighed an envelope in his hands, opened it to find several pieces of paper scribbled in a lean, elegant handwriting. Notes from their mother, all sorts of them; many seem to be lists of things to buy, things to do, written by someone who had no intention of keeping them. Joanna had died when they were very young: Jaime knew she must have had plans to watch them grow up, but life had thought otherwise. He eyes Tyrion, and decided not to show him; he was well aware of the guilt his brother had to live with, every day of his life. Tywin had never missed a chance to remind him he was the reason Joanna had died.

Jaime put the envelope back where it was, moving on to another faded green folder - on the front, he recognized his father’s handwriting, but most importantly he recognized what he had written. He could barely make out the numbers, but he knew his birthday fairly well. He skimmed through the contents and, atop the papers, found the St. Mary’s Hospital letterhead. “My birth certificate,” he announced, handing it to Tyrion.

“Mine in there as well?” Tyrion asked, hiding his bitterness with levity. “Turns out our father _was_ a sentimental.”

Inside the safe, Jaime found gold. As in, actual ingots, five of them, which he found hilarious and, somehow, ironic for a gold merchant. He found bills as well, and he figured that had to be his father’s emergency stash. A small black book, where his father seemed to write down even more monetary transactions to a mysterious beneficiary.

“Jaime…”

Tyrion’s voice was lost on him, as he browsed through those numbers. They were payments of some sort, always the same amount of money the fifth of each month. It was quite a sum, basically the same as his monthly allowance.

“Jaime.”

“What,” he asked vaguely, still engrossed by his readings. Jaime would never put it past Tywin to hide some illicit affairs, but he always figured he’d be the ringleader of whatever secret business he had. Judging by that small book, Tywin was the one under a thumb.

“Jaime.”

Tyrion’s small hand woke him from his trance when his brother touched his arm. “What, what is it?” Looking at him, Jaime found for the first time he could not quite decipher his face. It worried him. “What’s wrong?”

Tyrion was hesitant, holding Jaime’s birth certificate at a distance for some reason. “This… this is not your birth certificate.”

“What are you going on about?” Jaime laughed it off. “It’s my date of birth on the hospital records.”

“Yes,” said Tyrion, carefully. He seemed to be measuring his words. “But it is not your birth certificate.” Tyrion took a step forward, holding the birth certificate up so Jaime could read.

Jaime squinted: he needed glasses. Only now did he notice, the space where his name should be had been left empty. The date was the right one, the place as well. But… He picked up the certificate, touching it as if to prove it existed. Eyes wide, mouth agape, trembling hands. Jaime wondered if his legs would support him for much longer.

It came out as a whisper.

“I have a sister.”


	2. meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which he finds her.

 

 

Jaime was sweating profusely. He wished now he’d picked a white cotton shirt, or a black one, instead of the light blue one he’d decided to wear. Soon enough the sweat would start showing, revealing his nervousness. He’d found himself thinking like a hunter: he shouldn’t show fear, else the opponent would sense it and take advantage.

He was finding it hard to muster up the courage to raise his finger and ring the bell.

Finding her had not been difficult. Thankfully, Tywin had kept pristine records of everything, thinking he would live forever and no one would ever gain access to his accounts. But death was inevitable, even for the big Lannister Lion: the monthly transactions between Tywin Lannister and Sir Roger Reyne had been easy to spot, amidst the others. Roger Reyne had been a distant cousin of their father’s, a branch of the family they never saw much of. In fact, Jaime was sure he had never met a Reyne his whole life.

Roger Reyne had three daughters, only one the same age as Jaime. Her name was Cersei, and one look had been enough for Jaime to _know_. She had the same eyes as his, her hair were spun the same shade of gold. And now, she was Robert Baratheon’s wife. They had been in the same room before, at a social gathering during Robert Baratheon’s campaign: he remembered thinking she was beautiful, even wondering if he could get her to suck his cock before the night was over. A chill had run down his spine, at the recollection: that had been his sister he had fantasized about. She had worn red that night. Tywin had noticed and had told him to stay away. Back then Jaime had thought he was forbidding him from jeopardizing a business relationship. He knew now he was actually telling him to stop eye-fucking his own sister.

At last, he rang the bell and waited.

Robert Baratheon was spending his summer in a colonial two-story villa in the outskirts of London, a residence he called Storm’s End. Jaime had driven for a good hour and a half before he got there. His name had given him free access: not everyone could just waltz up to the future Prime Minister’s own private summer residence.

“Who is it?” came the voice from the speaker.

“Jaime Lannister,” Jaime rushed to say. “I’m here to see Robert Baratheon.”

A pause, Jaime could hear whispers coming from the other end. Then a prolonged buzz; he pushed past the door. Storm’s End wasn’t quite as opulent as Casterly Rock, but it was _something_. It was harsh in its edges, but elegant and minimal. The floor was checked black and white, the walls refined striped marble. Straight ahead, two massive staircases curved gently to become one in the middle of the opposite wall.

That was when he saw her. Hands on the railing, head tilted as if curious to see him. Sunlight entered the hall from a tall window behind her, enhancing her outline like some sort of celestial vision. His mouth fell agape. Her hair was pulled up in a tight ponytail, lips painted red. Loose, a simple white robe left open at the front, to uncover her lean body clad in nothing but a two-piece bathing suit, red as well.

Jaime swallowed. Perhaps God was real.

“My husband is hunting, Mr. Lannister,” she announced. “I don’t expect him to come home anytime soon.” Her voice was a caress, it tugged at something inside him. In his stomach, a beast he never knew was there stirred for the first time, like he’d heard some special calling. Cersei was a statue, gave no sign of having any intention of reaching him at the entrance hall.

“It is no big deal, Mrs. Baratheon,” he began, and took notice of how she grimaced at that, “In fact I was rather hoping to speak with you instead.”

That took her aback. She squinted, suspiciously, and finally began her descent. It was hard not to follow the sway of her hips, especially because she was so clearly putting on a show for him. He looked down, listened closely trying to make out the noise of each naked footstep on the floor. He couldn’t, and before he knew she was standing right beside him, beckoning him to follow her. He did, blindly and mute, like a puppy. The robe billowed in her wake.

They reached a tall glass door, she slid it open and they walked out into a secluded garden, shielded from view by tall trees and well-kept bushes. In the middle was a pool shaped like an _8_. On the opposite side was a small patio, adorned with wicker chaises-longue. On her way, she shrugged the robe off her shoulders. Jaime had to physically restrain himself from sighing aloud.

Cersei glanced over her shoulder. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He followed her to the patio, all the while wishing the unfamiliar beast in his stomach was the only rebellious stirring.

“So…” she started, sitting down. “You said you wanted to speak to me.”

Jaime felt awkward on his feet. “Are you always this careless with strangers?” he asked before he could stop himself. “You’re the wife of a man some would want dead. Aren’t you worried someone might try something?”

Cersei grinned. “There’s fifteen security guards hidden in the greenery, and right now they are all aiming at your head.” Jaime looked around, uncomfortable. “So no. I’m not worried, Mr. Lannister.”

“Jaime,” he said quickly. “My name is Jaime.”

“Jaime, then.” She allowed it, but didn’t offer the same courtesy in return. “Are you nervous, Jaime?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re sweating,” she noted with a mocking nod at his shirt. “You can take it off if you want to.” In that moment a maid came out the main building with a trail and two glasses. “Oh,” Cersei clapped her hands together once, “Margaritas!” Jaime watched her and realized there was at once something childish about the way she acted. She was toying with him like she seemed to toy with everything else in her life. It was endearing.

Jaime’s mind wandered to what her childhood must have been like. Certainly she was spoiled enough, what with Roger Reyne and Tywin Lannister both doting on her. She was beautiful, people must have told her so often and profusely. His guts sank at the thought of how many people must have looked at her with ill intentions when it was clear she’d become a woman. Was there anything he could have offered that life hadn’t already dealt?

Jaime took a sip of his drink, found it strong enough. Perhaps he needed this to take the edge off. He was acting like a school boy, not at all the charming impression he had meant to make upon her during their first meeting. Then again he had imagined they would be having this meeting under completely different circumstances and, most importantly, that she would be wearing clothes rather than a skimpy bathing suit.

 _That’s your sister_ , the voice inside his head belonged to his brother Tyrion and hadn’t shut up ever since he’d stepped foot inside the car that morning. It had become more insistent though, the moment he’d first noticed her lips were kissable.

She was sipping on her Margarita now, regarding him like some strange specimen. He appreciated that she did not wear sunglasses, because she was easy to decipher. It was all there, in those eyes as green as his: she was enticed, curious. She was bored and he was providing her with much needed distraction. Jaime thought there was a veil of sadness in there as well, the sadness that plagues those people who have so much more to give than what they’re allowed.

The silence had dragged on for longer than he had intended to. _Just tell her, Jaime_. He sat down on the chaise next to hers. “You probably know my father died recently.”

“Yes, sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral,” but she didn’t look sorry one bit. Her glass was half empty whereas the ice was melting in his own. He put it down on the small table beside them, giving up.

“After he passed, I did some digging…”

“Bad joke.”

Jaime hesitated, then laughed. She laughed too. It sounded genuine, crystal clear. He liked how the outer corner of her eyes crinkled when she laughed, it reminded him of his mother. She looked so much like his mother, he realized. _Tell her_.

“What I found out is he- He desperately wanted to be remembered with something big. Like… A monument. Or something.” A terrible lie.

Cersei wasn’t smiling any longer. Suddenly her face had grown serious. She sat further on the edge, closer to him. “This is not why you came,” she whispered, licking her lips. The blood red tint stayed on her lips like a tattoo. She looked feral now, and Jaime’s mouth went dry. Like a child, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. How could she read him? How did she have unwarranted access already? What was it about her that made him absolutely unable to move? He was nailed to the spot.

She placed a hand on his knee, slid it a few inches up his thigh. “Why are you here, Jaime Lannister?”

_She wants me on my knees, open and begging._

Tantalizingly close now, her hand was a dangerous reminder of her proximity. She was enjoying this, this was her weapon. She knew she could beat him this way, she knew she could manipulate him. This was a woman used to getting what she wanted, and this was how she did it. He was yet another powerful, disposable male to keep at her mercy.

 _I have to stop her_.

“I’m your brother.”

That did the trick. She retracted her hand immediately, leaned back to stare. Whatever he had expected, this was not it. She looked… angry. Her upper lip trembled, her jaw clenched, she stood up hastily and snapped her fingers.

In mere seconds, three people were on him, grabbing him by his arms. Jaime tried to shrug them off, but they were three, and there was only one of him. “Take him away,” she ordered, returning to her drink like nothing had just happened. “I don’t like to be made fun of, Mr. Lannister.”

“What the fuck,” he said, struggling against the guards’ grip. “I’m not making fun of you!”

“Come with us, sir,” said one of the men.

Cersei had her back on them all. The men began to drag him across the lawn, ignoring his pleas to wait, to listen, to let him speak. “Have you ever felt like something’s missing!?” Jaime yelled over the shoulders of the three gorillas, addressing Cersei. “That’s me, you stubborn bitch! I’m what’s missing!”

He saw her turn hastily around, confusion playing on her features. He knew he’d hit a nerve, she was at war with herself and she was losing. He knew what she was feeling, because he’d felt it too. His whole world had been turned upside down by the discovery: he’d tried to shut it off, pretend it was a lie, a mistake. But the moment he’d found out, he had known it was true. He had finally been able to give a name and a face to the sense of perennial discomfort that he had tried to fill with every conceivable excess. They had been conceived as one, but had lived as half. That was not what Nature had intended for them.

“Wait.” Her voice was loud, resounded across the lawn and Jaime could have sworn it had come from the Heavens above. “Let him go.” The guards unhandled him and stepped back. They shared a look, awaiting further orders, unsure. “Leave us.” Jaime watched them leave without looking back. That was what power looked like. And Cersei was nothing if not inherently powerful. She radiated it, commanded it. Expected it.

They were alone now, a good few feet away, existence weighing down on them with realization.

“Do you have proof of what you are saying?”

“I found the birth certificate,” Jaime explained. “My father… _Our_ father kept records of his transactions. That’s how I found you. He left you to Roger Reyne’s cares because he trusted him.” Cersei was silent, fury painted all over her features. Jaime knew this must come at a price, and the price was her whole life was crumbling, slipping through her fingers with each word he uttered. “We were born together. We’re twins.” He took a tentative step in her direction, and when she didn’t stop him he took another; he grabbed the robe she’d discarded earlier. He approached her like you do a wounded, abandoned beast. She would be afraid, wary to trust anyone. “You were the eldest of Tywin’s children.” He was back on the patio, now, Cersei was glaring. “You are a Lannister.” He stopped when she was within arm’s reach. He wouldn’t invade her space more than he was invading his mind.

“Why?” she breathed out.

He remembered a whole afternoon he’d spent thinking on this same issue with Tyrion. In fact, it had been Tyrion himself to come up with the only plausible explanation.

“Because you were a woman, and would inherit the title. And he couldn’t bear that.”

He reached out, offering the robe. She would want to cover herself, now that the game was over and he was no longer merely someone to use and toss aside. In fact, she did accept that, and she put it on fairly quick.

“You can’t tell anyone. If Robert knew he would…”

Whatever she thought Robert might do she did not say; Jaime nodded. They were public figures, and they would need to do handle this carefully. There was Robert’s campaign to think about, the election were just around the corner and a scandal would hurt his public image.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. Jaime knew now was the time for lashing out, and her scratches would hurt. But he could take it.

“I just want you. You’re my sister.” _You’re the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking._ “So how about we start over?” He offered his hand, and with it a truce and peace of mind. “Nice to meet you, Cersei.”

Cersei stared at him. She looked vulnerable, and Jaime felt sorry for her. He wanted to protect her, shield her from the pain. After what seemed the longest time, she took it. Her voice was small, when she spoke at last. “And you, Jaime.”

In that sentence was all the fear in the world.


	3. forbidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which he sees her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First of all thank you, wasn't expecting all the nice comments this got. I'm really grateful to the people who are reading, bookmarking, leaving kudos and commenting. I hope to manage to publish once a week, but I can't make any promises because life can get in the way. But I will definitely try! And as a show of good will, here I am, SEVEN DAYS, PRECISE. Hope you enjoy1  
> A few notes about the AU: many of you have asked a lot of questions as to how it will intersect with the original material. The truth is, it will probably not. The thing is, the premise fundamentally changes certain dynamics. For example, you will see Cersei does not hate Tyrion - which is something I am very excited about. I will try and give a shout-out to the original as much as possible of course, but some things are bound to be different and have a life of their own! Hope you will like it nevertheless, it's still Jaime and Cersei!  
> But enough of the chit-chat, I know this is not why you're here!  
> My eternal love to Ashley, as always, for everything.

Casterly Rock mansion stood on a hill; lonely, it demanded respect with its 1500 hectares. The main building was a four-story Victorian house in grey stone. Inside, it counted ten bedrooms, six bathrooms, three dining rooms and three salons (one per floor), two kitchens, a movie room, a gym, a laundry, a game-room. Outside, it held two tennis courts, stables with twenty stallions and ten brooding mares, another pool, a basketball court, a soccer field and two guesthouses. Jaime liked to call it  _ The Rock _ . The Lannisters were distantly related to the Royal Family, so they’d kept title, land and power. Other families hadn’t been so lucky, but Tywin? His nose for business had made sure he could only enlarge his fortune: no one could say he had not earned whatever was on his plate. For Jaime, things were different: everything he had now, he had inherited. Not only that, but he had never really cared for the family business before. He knew what people whispered behind his back; that he did not deserve this, that he had not worked a day in his life to deserve it. Truth be told, Jaime didn’t care.

In the great entrance hall, he watched the flower people bring in dozens of baskets of flower arrangements: white roses. 

“I ordered red roses,” he complained. The man he addressed halted, trying to mutter a few words before Jaime just told him to go ahead and put the roses into all the vases on the first floor. Then he muttered to himself: “Fucking white roses, what is it, a christening?”

“Now you’re just being pathetic.” Tyrion’s voice caught him off guard. His brother waddled down the stairs, looking around in confusion. “What the hell is going on?”

“I want it to be nice,” Jaime tried to justify himself. “It’s the first time she-”

“She grew up in the house of a Lord. You’re treating her like she’s a pauper,” Tyrion interrupted him, annoyed.

Jaime sighed, leaned against the doorway and watched the whole room, impressed with his own decoration skills. “She’s going to love it, isn’t she?”

“My brother, the interior designer,” Tyrion deadpanned. A beat. “You have the most idiotic grin on your face right now. If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re smitten with our sister.”

Jaime did a double take. “What the fuck, Tyrion,” he whispered, looking around to be sure the help had not heard that. “Don’t go around saying shit like that, you know people will believe anything.”

Tyrion eyed him suspiciously. Uncomfortable with his brother’s knowing stare, Jaime preferred to look away, returning his eyes to the full length mirror nearby. He’d picked a black cotton shirt, tucked in a pair of black jeans. He’d combed his long hair back, shaved his beard just enough that it didn’t look messy. At his wrist, he’d donned Tywin’s watch. 

“You look dashing,” Tyrion mocked.

“Stop that,” Jaime warned. But then continued after a beat: “You think?”

Tyrion was about to reply when they heard noises coming from outside. Jaime cast a glance at the door, then his wristwatch, then Tyrion. The doorbell rang like it was signalling a death sentence.  _ She’s early. _ Jaime ran to the door, Tyrion followed slowly, shaking his head with amusement. But when Jaime opened the door, even Tyrion had to pause and think.

The woman on the threshold was Joanna incarnated. She wore a red, fitting dress under that bared her forearms and her legs from the knee down. She wasn’t vulgar, but it was hard to keep impure thoughts at bay. Her hair was braided at the side, loosely. Jaime’s  _ idiotic grin _ widened.

She walked into the place without saying a word. Immediately her eyes ran up the stairs, to the ceilings, the paintings hanging on the walls. Jaime had seen Storm’s End, and it didn’t hold a candle to Casterly Rock. The guards remained outside, she all but closed the door in their faces. When she finally looked at him, Jaime’s stomach sank.  _ Is this what it feels like? To find what you didn’t know was missing? _ It was a violent emotion, one that gripped him from within and threatened to make him sick.

“Welcome,” he said at last, kissing her cheek. He let his hand rest on her lower back, protectively, as he guided her to the dining room. Tyrion waited on the threshold, watching them draw closer. Cersei halted at one of the vases, smelt the white roses.

“Do you like them?” Jaime asked.

“I prefer red ones.” Jaime mouthed  _ I knew it _ , when she wasn’t watching. Her attention was already on Tyrion. “Hello.”

“This is Tyrion, he’s-”

“I’m the brother you don’t look like, quite clearly.” Tyrion extend his hand, which Cersei took, not without hesitation. She watched him with some curiosity, shook his hand but didn’t say much in return.

Soon after, the three of them had lunch together. Sitting at a table way too big for three people, they ate and made small talk. Cersei was especially interested in Tyrion, for some reason Jaime could not quite put his finger on. Her face was inscrutable: Jaime wondered if that was how she looked at things she didn’t know, that she couldn’t understand. She did not say much, most of the time it was just him and Tyrion recalling things that happened to them, in their youth. Cersei listened and absorbed the life she had not lived. A polite smile curved her face, but Jaime saw her knuckles were white around the fork. Dessert he spent asking her questions, to which she replied with utmost courtesy, but he could see right through her. She was putting up a façade, for him and for Tyrion.

He itched to push down those walls.

After lunch he offered to take her for a tour of the property. The day was sunny, the temperatures had risen conspicuously. As they walked down the pebbled pathways, he couldn’t stop casting her sideway glances. Her hair shone in the golden sunlight, reminding him of Joanna. She looked so much like his mother, or what his mother would look like if she’d reached her 40s.

“Is something wrong?” he asked at some point. They’d reached the stables, the horses peaked from their boxes to see who interrupted their afternoon haze. Cersei stepped further in, with her heels and her designer clothing; yet she did not look out of place. She approached one of the horses, a young golden-beige palomino, and caressed his neck. The horse seemed to enjoy it.  _ Of course it does _ . “Have I upset you? It was never my intention.”

“You have done no such thing,” she murmured, stroking the horse’s mane.

“Then what is it? You’re acting strange. You’ve barely said a word throughout lunch.”

Cersei smiled a small smile. “It’s been you and him for so long,” she started, her eyes fixed on the horse.  _ She means Tyrion _ . “Whereas it was supposed to be you and I.” Jaime took a step forward, driven by instinct. “You’re a stranger to me,” she added quickly, “but somehow I feel like something was taken from me. And that makes me…”

Cersei didn’t know what that made her feel, so she did not complete the sentence. Angry? Sad? Jaime wondered what she felt, if it was the same he had felt when he’d found out Tywin’s secret: hollowed.

“Do you like him?” he asked, nodding his head at the horse. Cersei looked up, confused, then nodded. “His name is  _ Honour _ .”

“Stupid name.”

“It’s yours if you want it.” Cersei’s hand dropped at her side. “Everything is yours, if you want it.” Jaime spoke each word meaning it. Part of him wanted to give her the whole world, to be sure she never went without anything ever again. He wrapped his fingers round her elbow, made her look at him. “What do you want? I will give you  _ everything _ . Just ask.”

Cersei tilted her head up to look him in the eye; he was considerably taller than her, heels and all. Unexpectedly, she closed the distance between them, hands resting on his chest, and went on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It sent a jolt to his lower stomach, one he refused to acknowledge. 

“Thank you,” she said, low. “Show me the rest.”

 

* * *

 

The music in the club was deafening and obnoxious. From his vantage point Jaime could see the whole dancefloor – all the people pressed together, dancing to the same rhythm, alienated. Usually he enjoyed this sort of things, but tonight his mind was elsewhere.

“Jamz!” The thundering voice woke him from his boredom. The redhead made his way over, jumping over the red velvet rope that separated people like Jaime from people like… well, people. His red hair was all over the place, sign that he’d been at it for a while already. Judging by the way he swayed, Jaime could have sworn the glass he held in his hand was not the first one of the night. He jumped him, hugging him tight and yelling over the loud electro-sound. “You’re dreadfully sober, I can see it in your  _ eyes. _ ” He basically pushed his glass in Jaime’s hand. “Don’t leave me alone, this is a terrible world,” he joked.

Addam Marbrand was the sole man who actually liked him. As in, not merely tolerated him because of who he was and how much money he had. They had grown up together, become  _ men  _ together. Shared a girl or two, as well. In the list of eligible bachelors, Addam always made the final cut, alongside Jaime. They were a permanent fixture in gossip columns. Addam was, in Jaime’s opinion, even wilder than him. If you asked Addam, he might have said the opposite, that Jaime was a bad influence on him.

Half an hour later, Jaime was sour, thoroughly unable to enjoy the night. He was a few drinks in as well, but not quite as wasted as Addam, who kept dancing most embarrassingly.  “What’s with the face?” Addam asked after Jaime refused to join him on the dancefloor yet another time. “Girl trouble?” Jaime didn’t answer. Addam collapsed next to him, onto a small couch. “Girl trouble.”

_ In a way _ , Jaime wanted to respond, but chose to bite his tongue instead.

He leaned closer to Addam and yelled into his ear: “I have a sister!”

“No you don’t!”

“Yes, I do! I found out some time ago!”

Addam pulled back and watched him, baffled. He found a cigarette in his breast-pocket and stood up, pulling Jaime with him. Together, they exited the club from a side-door. They found themselves alone, in an alley, dark but for the sad neon above their heads. Addam lit up the cigarette, took a drag and titled his head.  “What is this about a sister?”

Jaime snatched the cigarette for himself and told him about Tywin’s funeral, Tywin’s safe… and Tywin’s blonde secret.

“Woah,” Addam interrupted him. “ _ The _ Cersei Reyne? Robert Baratheon’s  _ Cerse _ i?  _ She _ ’s your sister?” He was astonished, mouth agape and eyes wide. “Dude, do you know how long I’ve been trying to  _ tap that _ ?” His movements betrayed his excitement at what he’d just learned.

“ _ Dude _ , that’s my sister,” Jaime snarled. The beast that had inhabited his guts ever since he’d found out stirred, growled. “And how do you know her?”

“We went to University together,” Marbrand explained like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Good luck with her, she’s a handful. Drove half my mates up the wall.” 

Jaime returned the cigarette to him, he was suddenly sick to his stomach. Addam finished it, the silence drew on until Addam took the last drag and put it out against the wall. “Come on mate, I know what you need.” There was mischief in his voice and Jaime knew, from experience, it couldn’t be anything good.

 

* * *

The girl had been at it for ten minutes, head bobbing up and down. Addam had picked her and a friend from the dancefloor, claiming they’d begun salivating the moment he walked into the club. Jaime didn’t like bringing girls home; at first he wouldn’t do it out of respect for his dead mother, now he guessed he owed it to his father as well. It was stupid, but every time he had brought a girl home he’d felt the eyes of his ancestors watching him, therefore he had decided hotel rooms would have to do. It wasn’t like he had any reputation to maintain: everyone knew he liked to fuck.

Addam was in the adjacent room, with the girl’s friend; he liked brunettes, so he’d picked the one with the darkest shade of brown hair. Jaime wasn’t picky, so he didn’t mind the blonde one. Her name was Stacey. Possibly. She had her hair in a ponytail, so he could see her face. She was a pretty one, and Jaime guessed someone somewhere might love her. Not him, not today, not now. He closed his eyes and felt release build up as the girl added hands and teeth to her ministration. Unceremoniously, he grabbed her by the hair and guided her movements.

Then something happened.

When the girl looked up behind her eyelashes, her eyes turned green. Jaime could have sworn she had the most ordinary hazel eyes. He remembered her nose rounder, her jaw less sharp. Her lips around her cock became a familiar shape of pink.

“Fuck,” he murmured, pushing the girl off him. He was breathing hard, half from the missed orgasm and half from shock. Stacey, her name was, looked confused; she was sitting on the carpet, knees sinking in the linoleum. Jaime tucked his cock back inside his pants, trying to steady his heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what-”

Stacey didn’t waste much time. “Turd.” Whatever else she might lack, she had some dignity. He had not paid her, she was there because she had wanted to be. She gathered her clothes angrily and locked herself in the bathroom. It took her about ten minutes to fix her appearance and leave the hotel room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Jaime didn’t know what to do. His hands were shaking with the sudden revelation. What he had seen… no sane man would go there.  _ What is wrong with me? _ He considered calling Tyrion, briefly, but decided against it. What would he say, anyway?  _ Brother, is it terribly bad that I fantasized about fucking my sister’s mouth? _ No, that was something he could never tell anyone, not even Addam. Especially not Addam. This was something he would have to forget, least it became a habit.  _ You sick bastard _ , he thought glancing at his reflection in the window, against the pitch black night sky.

All of a sudden, he remembered the girl’s name had not been Stacey, but Tracy. Lacy? Macy? Kacey. Yes, definitely Kacey.

His phone rang somewhere, discarded along with his wallet and the room key. He let it ring and went for a shower instead. Under the scalding water, he tried to scrub away what had happened, but it was under his skin.  _ As was she _ . There was a particular sense of guilt that just would not let go of him. And it terrified him to realize the lengths he would go to give her what she was denied. It came from within, it came from the beast he did not know was there.

Outside, the phone rang again; this time he did not hear it, swallowed by the loud whirring of the hairdryer. The hair fell on his eyes, messy; once he was finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and did his best to ignore his erection. From the adjacent room, his phone kept ringing; someone had something important to tell him, apparently, and Jaime understood he could not stay in his cocoon for the rest of his life, not when reality was knocking so insistently.

Tyrion had called five times while he was in the shower. Jaime called him back.

“Where are you?” Tyrion asked, sounding anxious.

“The Four Seasons, why?”

“You might want to check out the Daily Sun.”

Jaime put him on speakerphone and did exactly what his brother suggested. A knot had formed in his stomach, only he did not know when. On the small iPhone screen the photo was grainy and barely recognizable: the back of a blonde woman, and the gates of Casterly Rock. In capital letters, above the picture, the title did not leave room for guessing: “ **IN THE LION’S DEN** ”. The article proceeded to describe in detail how Cersei Baratheon, neè Reyne, was spotted visiting Casterly Rock, the Lannister residence, and how she had spent the whole day there while her husband was in the City for his campaign. The writer had put two and two together, and decided perhaps there was  _ trouble in paradise _ , and the beautiful blonde must have fallen for the charms of a certain young lion.

“Fuck,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “How can we respond to this?”

“We tell the truth, Jaime!” Tyrion exclaimed.

“She doesn’t want to. Not yet.”

“Listen, what will hurt Robert’s campaign more, a secret brother or being a cuckold?”

Jaime honestly did not know. The Lannisters had been affiliated with the Tories and the Targaryen family for so long, Jaime thought perhaps Robert would prefer the latter. It wasn’t a mystery he was not faithful to his wife either.

“I’ll speak to her,” Jaime agreed. Tyrion put the phone down, and Jaime remained alone, staring silently at his phone screen for a few minutes. He had lied to Tyrion: he knew he should call her, but this was not the right moment. Not after what had just happened. Her existence surrounded him and threatened to suffocate him. Just the thought of hearing her voice was dangerous. In the back of his mind, he dimly registered his cock stirring again.

Jaime could almost see her there, in the middle of the room, with her red dress and golden hair, her plump lips and slender legs.

She taunted him, and he let her.


	4. escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! Can't believe I'm actually keeping my one-chapter-per-week promise, honestly thought I wouldn't last long but here we are. Thak you for all the nice reviews you left on the last one, and I hope you'll like this one as well. Still pumping some fuel into this baby, but I'm confident it'll reach temperature soon! A warning for this chapter: I know I already put a trigger warning in the general story, but I wanna put particular emphasis on the domestic abuse/marital rape in this one. Please be safe, and be considerate reading.  
> Much love to you all, and as always leave a comment if you like what you're reading because I can't possibly stress enough how important those are for fanfiction writers. WE LIVE FOR YOU, MY DARLING HEARTS <3  
> Ashley, you have my heart.  
> Enjoy!

The eggs in her plate looked so perfect she wanted to retch.

Cersei had not slept well the night before. Her head ached, as did her muscles. She couldn’t tell what exactly had kept her up, but her brain had just refused to switch off. Tossing and turning, her brain had returned to the events of the few days before. It had been a shock, of course, and she had not yet begun to process what that would mean for her. To be a Lannister meant she was entitled to a certain legacy. The most obvious feeling was one of anger, but with the main culprit dead it was hard to address that emotion. Then came apprehension: Robert would not thank her for this, if it went public. Many of his electors still remembered the grip Aerys Targaryen had on the city, and Tywin had been one of his closest affiliates. Her  _ father _ .

Last, there was the stranger sensation of all, and it came down to Jaime Lannister. When he’d first introduced himself, she’d thought perhaps she’d fuck him. It had been a decision made on impulse, a way to anger Robert. When he had told her the truth, her world had come crashing down, but Jaime… being around him felt good, good in ways she had no explanation for. Like her soul was pacified at last, like her heart could find a new pace to beat, and her blood a new flux to pump.

Footsteps. Cersei looked up to see her husband walk into the dining room. He barely looked at her, as he sat at the breakfast table. A young maid poured coffee for him, while he dove amidst the pages of his morning newspaper. Hs knuckles were white though, Cersei knew something was off.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked, bringing a tall glass of orange juice to her lips. Robert lowered the newspaper and watched her without speaking. Then he folded it carefully and dropped it onto the table. He closed his fists, looked away. Cersei closed her eyes and sighed, put the glass down. “Just say what you want to say.”

“Where were you, yesterday?”

That was uncharacteristic of him. He was never the jealous type. She’d had her share of extra-marital affairs, mostly lowly nobodies that would worship the ground she walked on and could never  _ hope _ to score someone like her. The usual clichés: a pool boy, a chauffeur, the tennis trainer, Robert’s errand boy. No,  _ this _ was different, Robert was annoyed.

He wouldn’t have asked, if he didn’t already know.

“I was at Casterly Rock, why?”

As soon as the words left her lips Robert let out a huff, and stood up angrily, pushing the chair back, it toppled. “Everyone leave,” he bellowed, addressing the help. The servants looked at each other, hesitant. The young maid offered Cersei a pitiful glance. They all left, closing the doors. Cersei swallowed, but showed herself as relaxed as she could. “And why did you go there, if I may?” Robert’s voice was trembling, as were Cersei’s hands, so she hid them in her lap.

“A business lunch,” she lied. “You and Tywin were getting along before he passed, as far as I can remember.”

Robert’s nostril flared. She dared defy him, no one ever did that. “Yes, but that was not for the voters to know.” He picked up the chair, put it back in its place but did not sit down. Instead he stalked around the table, approaching Cersei’s end. “Business, you said?”

Cersei looked down at the eggs. The yolks stood out against the whites. Robert’s heavy footsteps were very close now. If she shifted her stare to the pavement, now, she could see Robert’s lucid black shoes. She knew she should avoid confrontation; instead, she looked up, with a grin.

“What business could  _ you _ possibly discuss with Tyrion Lannister?” His words dripped with mockery.

“None of yours,” she deadpanned.

They stared at each other, Robert took advantage of his higher ground to look down on her with a sneer that betrayed what he really thought about her.  _ He hates me _ , she had known from day one. To still her hands she crumpled the napkin in her lap. Robert noticed it, leaned down and against the table, towering her and forcing her to lean back from him.

“Tell me, is it true dwarves have big cocks?”

Cersei slapped him. Robert was taken aback. His face contorted with rage, he grabbed her by the arm and forced her to her feet. Cersei winced, knowing she would find bruises there, later in the day. Struggling was useless, because Robert was taller and stronger than her; his shoulders alone could encase her, small as she felt. She tried to beat his chest, but it was like trying to get a copper statue to budge: he wouldn’t.

“It’s not the dwarf, is it?” he continued, shaking her some, and tightening his grasp on her arm.

“You’re hurting me,” she hissed.

“Are you fucking Jaime Lannister?” Robert asked, and he looked amused at the thought. “My, really? Him? You really are a stupid cunt.”

It happened fast. She found the plate, grabbed the eggs and splattered them all over his face. The yolks broke and glistened down his cheek, dripping from his beard. He was so surprised he let go of her. Cersei sprinted, ran across the room. Realization hit him that she was escaping, and he followed her. She pushed through the doors, past the servants waiting outside and up the stairs, up the steps two at a time. Robert may be stronger, but she was faster. He could never catch her. She made it to her bedroom, slammed the door and locked herself in. Robert banged his fists against the door, once, twice. He was yelling, cursing her through the walls.

“Fuck off,” Cersei yelled back. Her phone was still plugged on her nightstand. She eyed it and made up her mind in the blink of an eye.

 

* * *

Robert left not long after their fight. Every now and then she could hear him complain from his own bedroom at the end of the corridor. They had separate bedrooms because they knew they might kill each other if they didn’t. Their marriage was… a sham. Behind them, someone had pulled the strings and neither had done anything to avoid it because it suited them. Robert wanted a beautiful wife to parade around, and the money that came with her – Roger Reyne was powerful, and noble, and rich. Cersei wanted to  _ be  _ someone, more than anything, and was ready to sacrifice her happiness to wield some kind of power. They had been masters of their own defeat but, at the end of the day, it had worked and they had gotten what they wanted: everything else had been lost in the process, but Cersei would not forsake her dignity.  _ Never on the face _ , she had told him. And he had kept that promise.

Robert was not faithful, and neither was she. But they were both discreet about it. One might argue everyone knew, but no one had  _ proof _ of their infidelities. That mattered. Let people talk, everyone talks all the time.

As she had foreseen, around lunch time her arm began to show the purplish signs of Robert’s violence. She covered it up, wearing a blouse with longer sleeves. Around 5 pm she put on a pair of large sunglasses and went out the door, followed by two security guards Robert had assigned to her. She had fucked one of them, and strongly hinted at fucking the other one soon enough. They were, ultimately, her men, not Robert’s. She’d made sure of that.

The shop assistants in the Versace boutique in Sloane Street knew her and called her Mrs. Baratheon. Cersei hated that, but she could never admit that out loud. Not to mention, she was as confused as ever about her identity now. Yes, she was not a Baratheon because she did not feel one, nor did she want to. But she wasn’t a Reyne anymore. Jaime Lannister had seen to that, dropping the equivalent of an atomic bomb on her existence. She should hate him, and she did. He had offered her the world, everything she could ever want.

Why was it so hard to just  _ take it? _

In the dressing room, she tried on seven different dresses: white lace, black silk, green satin, long and short, tight and mermaid-like or large and puffy. She hated all of them, but most of all she hated the small purple spots on her arm every time she took off an outfit to try on the next one. Eventually she put her black pants and white blouse back on and decided she would not buy any of those. Bunched up on the floor, she stared at her own face in the unflattering lights of the dressing room, and saw a few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

Then, she heard it. The loud horn out in the street.

Cersei grabbed her purse and pushed the door open, walked past the security guards, past the shop assistants, out the boutique and past a few innocent bystanders. A man on a motorbike waited, holding out a helmet for her, he was dressed in leather, unrecognizable behind his tinted visor. She grabbed her helmet, put it on and hopped on the motorbike, holding tightly to the rider’s mid-section. Her guards, on the sidewalk, watched on in confusion. The one she had  _ not  _ fucked yet, was baffled. “Mrs. Baratheon, you can’t-”

The loud noise of the engine drowned his sentence, and the rider sped up down the street.

 

* * *

 

The motorbike meandered through the traffic down the Chelsea Embankment, speeding up every time the road was clear. Cersei held on tight to the man in front of her, fingers digging into the black leather around his stomach. The more she did, the faster he went. They crossed the Thames, and eventually reached their destination: the London Peace Pagoda. Cersei hopped off and took off the helmet; as did the rider. He shook his luscious golden hair and smirked, still leaning on the motorbike.

“I stand by what I said, Rapunzel. Would have been more fun if you let down your tresses.”

Cersei was fixing her hair in the small rear-view mirror. “Do you have any idea how many people guard Storm’s End?” she asked. Jaime scoffed, with that attitude she’d learned to recognize as him. The arrogance that he could take on the world, and would have if only she’d asked. It was endearing: no one had ever loved her that much. “Thank you for coming.”

They started walking. He was silent, and Cersei knew what he was waiting for. She had not given any explanation, just sent him a text that said she wanted to escape, a  _ when _ and a  _ where _ . They were alone, side by side, and she considered how much she should give away.  _ I don’t want to be saved _ . Soon enough someone would recognize them. The more they remained out in the open the more they risked someone taking pictures, making assumptions again.

“Have you read the article?” he said, suddenly.

“No,” she said, looking in the distance. Then she lowered her gaze. “Robert did.”

“And?”

“He wasn’t happy, let’s leave it at that.” His silence was impregnated with meaning. Cersei refused to look at him, fearing to acknowledge the threat. “I haven’t told him yet. I don’t think I can keep it a secret much longer.”

“Tell him.”

Cersei halted, arms crossed. “It’s not that easy.” Jaime too stopped in his tracks. He was already about to rebuke when she beat him to it. “It’s  _ not _ . You shouldn’t be this reckless. There are things to consider-”

Jaime grabbed her hands, both. Cersei looked around, uneasy. Anyone could see, anyone could draw their own conclusions. Why was he so irresponsible? Why did her stomach knot every time she was around him? What was it about him that made her so terribly anxious? She tried to pull her hands away, but he tightened his grasp, pulling. “I don’t’ give a shit about things to consider. You’re my  _ sister _ . I want to spend time with you without being afraid. I want to be there when you need me. I don’t want us to sneak around. We’re not doing anything bad.” A pause. “Are we?”

_ Are we? _

“No, we aren’t.” Her voice was unsure, but he was persistent. “I’ll tell him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No,” perhaps it came out too rushed because he frowned. “It’s better if I tell him, first.” Cersei didn’t know what Robert’s reaction would be. He would not be happy, the voters would not be happy, his campaign manager would like it even less. And she didn’t want Jaime to be there when Robert inevitably showed his ugly side.  _ He always does, in the end _ . What could Jaime do, if he were to bear witness to Robert’s outbursts?  _ He would kill him. _ A shiver ran down her spine at the thought; she imagined him bloody and dishevelled, and it pleased her.

He squeezed her hands with his, and she allowed him a few seconds before she pulled away. She resumed the walk, heading for the nearest bench. There, she sat down and inhaled the smell of summer, of leaves and flowers. He came close, so she could smell him too. He took off his leather jacket and sat next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in. She was rigid at first, looked at the spot on her arm where his fingers drew mindless circles. He was distracted, looking elsewhere, how could this be so foreign yet so natural to him?

“I like this,” he said, looking down at her, amused at her discomfort. She blinked, scoffed and shook her head; he was a child at heart, living to irritate those around him for no reason other than because he could. It was fresh, it was different from what she was used to. There was a certain quality to his arrogance even, like she could somehow justify it. He walked like the world belonged to him, and in a way Cersei thought it did. So she leaned into the embrace, staring into the distance because if she looked into his eyes now it would be too intimate, and they were not quite  _ there _ yet.

Where were they, though?

 

* * *

That night, Robert was in a better mood. Cersei wagered he must have fucked someone, and she mentally thanked the stranger. He made the effort to reach her in the saloon where she was sitting, legs tucked underneath her with a book in her hands and a glass of wine on the small coffee table. He kissed her cheek, stroked her hair and told her she looked beautiful. It was as if he had forgotten what had happened that morning.

Cersei had not. Her arm still bore signs of their match. She would never forgive.

“Robert, I need you to sit down. We need to talk,” she began, putting down the book and grabbing the glass instead. She drank a generous gulp, enough to infuse liquid courage. Robert was suspicious, but he sat down all the same. “I’m not pregnant,” Cersei said hurriedly, before he had time to guess.

“The wine gave it away.”

Cersei chuckled. “It’s about yesterday. It’s about Casterly Rock.”

Robert was already impatient, he did not want to listen to what she had to say, that much was clear. “I don’t need to know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“We have an agreement,” Robert reminded her.

Yes, they did an agreement. He would not tell her who he was fucking, and she would not tell him who she was fucking her. But this was different, wasn’t it?  _ Wasn’t it _ ?

“Robert, this is not what you think. There’s something I’ve kept from you,” she put her hand over his forearm, leaned in closer. They were huddled together, Robert’s face a study of confusion. Once upon a time he had been a different man, fierce and coveted. But life had ways to break the strongest souls. In his case, it had been the death of the woman he had loved. Cersei took a deep breath and nodded to herself before she finally spit it out: “I am not Roger Reyne’s daughter. Tywin Lannister is my biological father. That’s the reason I was at Casterly Rock. I’m a Lannister, Robert.”

Robert leaned back, his dark brown eyes out of focus. Slowly, he stood up and circled the couch. Cersei maintained her position, straightening her back in an attempt at composure. Whichever the reaction she would not cower. Her husband started pacing, she could  _ hear _ the clogs turning in his brain. It was strange, as by now she would have expected an explosion already.

“So you have access to the Lannister money?”

That was… a surprise. “Not yet, but… Jaime said I could have everything I want.”

Robert nodded, then ran around the couch and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “This… this is good.” Cersei tried to pull her hands from his grip, but he had no intention of letting her go. “See, I’ve had some trouble, with the campaign. I could use the endorsement. The Lannisters will announce they’re backing us.” He was manic, Cersei didn’t have time to contradict him. He pulled her in for a kiss, ferocious, and pushed her legs open, settling between them.

She knew what would come next. She broke the kiss, looked away and felt his hands lift her nightgown up her legs until it was all bunched up around her hips. It was pointless to say no, and besides, she knew it was the only reason she had what she had today. So she let him tug her panties down her legs and pull her to the edge of the couch. She focused on the opposite wall, choosing a particular spot, then she heard the zipper.

Cersei closed her eyes.


	5. breaking news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this chapter one day early because... well, some things happened, and some friends needed a cheer-me-up. I would like to dedicate this chapter to the entirety of Camp Lannister on Twitter. You're a fam, and I love all of you.  
> As per usual, thank you Ashley for being my wife from an alternate reality: my heart, my mind and my soul are yours.  
> And thank you to everyone who's reading this and taking a moment out of their day to comment and tell me what they think about it! I love hearing what you think, love hearing all your doubts and questions, and I hope I'll be able to answer them all in due time.  
> A tidbit: at the end of the chapter, you will find a tidbit from the next one! Gotta keep you interested, don't I?   
> F.

It was all over the news within a week. Of course Jaime had expected some sort of reaction from the public, but not like this: the reporters at the gates of Casterly Rock had camped out there, there was no way in or out without them noticing. Once they had followed him all the way to the Lannister offices. No matter how many times he told them to fuck off, they just kept coming back for more. They had agreed not to give out any statements following the official one – which had been given by Robert Baratheon in front of a camera, with Cersei standing by his side, holding his hand and smiling. Jaime had seen behind that smile: she wanted to be a part of that media circus, thrived on the attention, but hated the man behind the podium.

“It will die out,” Cersei had said during the only brief phone call they had managed.

Jaime was supposed to announce the Lannisters would be endorsing the Baratheon campaign that afternoon, it had been her request  _ technically _ , but he knew there wasn’t Cersei behind this. It was a Monday. He wanted to speak to her, reason with her about this. Jaime did not like being bossed around, especially not by the likes of Robert Baratheon. But Cersei was always unavailable, had been so for a week. After spending a lifetime unaware of her existence, it was uncharacteristic that he would miss her as much as he did after barely one week.

He fixed the red tie Tyrion had picked out for him. In his grey suit, he looked like his father and Jaime wasn’t sure whether he liked it or hated it. With one last look at the mirror, he turned to his younger brother. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Father is rolling in his grave right now,” Tyrion answered. Then he smirked. “Can’t say I hate it.”

His father’s lessons had been boring, he could not remember ever being truly interested in what he had to say. Tyrion, instead, had been much more interested. He would have gladly unburdened himself of the responsibility, but the board of Lannister Ltd. had been well instructed by Tywin Lannister before his departure. Tyrion would never put his hands on the family company for as long as he lived. Unless Jaime were to somehow kill each one of the twelve members and shit on his father’s will.

“Mr. Lannister,” came the small voice from the threshold. Both Jaime and Tyrion turned to the door. “Mrs. Baratheon is here.” The Lannister brothers exchanged a look: what was she doing here? And mostly, Jaime thought, why hadn’t she returned any of his calls only to make an appearance without a warning? What game was she playing at?

“Let her in,” Tyrion said.

“ _ She _ is already in,” came Cersei’s voice, pushing past the maid and closing the door in her face. She was golden as always, as golden as the two of them. For the occasion she’d worn gold. Jaime smiled to himself: had she done it on purpose? “How much time we got?” she asked, with a certain urgency.

Jaime looked at the alarm on his nightstand. “Ten minutes.”

Cersei sighed, deep in thought. “It will have to do.”

 

* * *

When they stepped out of the entrance door of Casterly Rock, it was together. Jaime, front and center, Cersei on his right, Tyrion on his left. The cameras focused on the three of them, flashing like fireworks. They stopped at the few steps, holding on to their higher ground. With one last glance at both his sibling, Jaime took a step forward and began to speak.

“I’m here to announce my family will be endorsing Robert Baratheon’s campaign in the upcoming elections.” A pause. “I know this comes as a surprise, the Lannisters having always been on the other side of this barricade. But I am not my father.” A murmur from the crowd, growing in intensity. Jaime had to raise his voice. “It has been a long time coming, and we are sure Robert will be the right choice, and will do what’s best for the people. And will do so aided by my brother Tyrion, who has accepted a place in Robert’s cabinet as Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs.”

The crowd went mad. The clamour was deafening, every reporter seemed to have a different question. Jaime smiled at the camera before turning on his heels and returning inside, with Cersei and Tyrion in tow.

 

* * *

Jaime could hear Robert’s screams through Cersei’s phone. The three of them were sitting in Tywin’s study; Cersei had kicked off her shoes and was lounging on the couch, Tyrion had taken its place behind Tywin’s desk. Jaime, meanwhile was at the windowsill, watching Cersei’s face contort at Robert’s remarks. They had played him, but in doing so she had put herself in a difficult position. She had declared to her own husband she was picking the side of the family she had just met.

Why had she done that? What could her personal motive be? Affection couldn’t cut it, not for a brother she’d only just met, nor for a father who had abandoned her. Then what did she want?  _ Power _ . Robert Baratheon would soon enough come by enough power to last him a lifetime, but what she really wanted was the sort of unconditional power that came from the shadows, from powerful people  _ owing _ you. In that, she reminded him of his father. Could Tywin have given up the one child with better chances at fulfilling his premises?

“We’ll be waiting,” Cersei concluded, putting her phone down at last. Then, to Tyrion: “He’s coming.”

“He wasn’t happy.”

“Of course he wasn’t,” Cersei retorted. “But he has no alternatives. He needs you. He won’t win this election without you.”

_ Us _ , Jaime wanted to say, but kept silent. In fact he could not remember if he’d spoken at all since the conference. Tyrion and Cersei seemed to be managing perfectly well without him. He had never been one for politics and intrigues, he left that to his little brother. And now, apparently, to his twin sister as well.

Tyrion must have noticed the silence, because he turned to meet his glare. Hesitant, he hopped off Tywin’s chair and headed for the door. “Better go get my boxing gloves, then,” he said. With one last nod at Cersei, he left the room, knowing some things were better left behind closed doors. And as soon as that door was closed, she spoke.

“You are mad at me.”

“Yes, I am.”

He had not waited, had not given her the benefit of the doubt. Yes, he was angry. He was  _ pissed _ . In fact, just looking at her now made his blood boil.

“I called you. A hundred times,” he tried explaining, rising from his seat. “I told you I wanted to be there for you,  _ with _ you. And you shut me out. Why?” He did not like it, the sensation of being mad at her. She had ways of getting under his skin that he could not abide. “I’m not a puppet. I’m not your puppet. I’m not one of the men you can use and discard. I’m your  _ brother _ . You can’t ask me to jump, and expect me to ask  _ how high _ .”

“Jaime, I was-”

“I don’t care what you were doing!” The outburst was so sudden it almost took him by surprise. His ears were ringing, and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath. “Whatever it was, we should have done it together.” Something bothered him but he could not quite put his finger on it; however he had begun to connect the dots and had decided it had something to do with the beast that had awakened in the pit of his stomach. He felt possessive, manic. The idea of her keeping secrets from him made him lose all sensibility. There was no logical explanation to what he was feeling.

Stubbornly, she did not avert her eyes. It reminded him of predators in the wilderness, and how they kept eye contact to challenge their opponent.  _ Is she challenging me? _ She rose, barefoot, and padded across the carpet and towards him. She was shorter than him, not too short but considerably so that he had to look down to maintain her glare.

“Jaime,” she said, putting on a smile that resembled a sneer. “I am not your property. Please remember that.” And with that she went back to the couch, collected her shoes and left without looking back.

* * *

That had been their first fight. He supposed if they’d had a chance to  _ live _ their childhood together he would be used to this by now. But he had only just found her, and this was a first he supposed they had to have at some point. They were both proud, stubborn, arrogant and most of all used to being on their own, no one questioning their behaviour. Well, he’d had Tyrion but Tyrion was an enabler. He knew he would not apologize, nor would she. So he had kept to his father’s office, brooding and wondering where his sister might be. Casterly Rock was huge, and he could almost picture her anywhere: petting Tywin’s hounds, lounging by the pool, walking through the tennis court, feeding the ducks by the pond. No, none of that was what Cersei would do. She was probably stewing somewhere, same as him, thinking about how stupid he was.

He  _ had _ been stupid, he knew it, but he could not control it.  _ Strange _ .

A knock on the door. He wasn’t surprised to see his younger, shorter brother on the threshold. He had a knowing face, somewhat amused. Jaime rolled his eyes and plopped down on the sofa, throwing an arm over his eyes. Judging by his brother’s approaching footsteps and the door closing, he knew he was up for a pep talk.

So he decided to beat him to it. “She’s insufferable.”

“She is  _ you _ .”

Jaime tilted his head to glare, Tyrion sat down on the leather armchair in front of him. “She’s been chain-smoking out on the patio for the past hour.” Jaime sat up, kicking his feet up on the small coffee table. “Are we going to have to pay the bills for her lung cancer too?” Jaime scolded him wordlessly. Tyrion laughed and did the same as he, although his feet barely reached the edge of the table.

“I don’t know why I get like this when she’s around,” Jaime admittedly candidly, shrugging. “It’s like I just found her but I’m afraid she’ll slip away. She’s so…”

“Ephemeral.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Jaime, pointing a finger in recognition. “Exactly. It’s like, if I don’t keep her grounded she’ll float away.”

“You know she won’t. She’s way more grounded than you.”

Jaime scoffed, crossed his arms at his chest and sank further into the sofa cushions. Childish, maybe, but he did not want to be reminded of his weaknesses. Especially not now: he was in the middle of a crisis, and Cersei was the reason why he could no longer recognize himself in the mirror. What had he been for the past years? What had he been without her? What could he be  _ with her _ ?

They sat there in silence for a while. Neither could tell how long had passed when they heard the gates open and the town car made its way up the pebbled street that led to the main building. They got up immediately, Jaime put his shoes back on in a hurry and the both of them practically ran down the stairs. Outside, Cersei was already waiting, her posture all a Lady should be. Two town cars halted in front of the entrance. The reporters had been escorted back outside the main gates. Four bodyguards got out the first car, another exited the second one. Robert Baratheon followed. Jaime heard Cersei’s sigh somewhere on his left, but when he turned to her she was staring straight ahead, at the man she called her husband.

“What, no welcome party?” asked Robert looking at the three of them. He let out a boisterous laugh. Jaime frowned: this was not what he expected, not what he had seen on Cersei’s face as she spoke to him on the phone.  _ An act. He’s putting up an act. _ Jaime couldn’t help wonder what he wanted to hide. Robert walked up the few steps that separated them. He was tall, as tall as Jaime, but broader and, Jaime snickered, larger too. “So, we’re family now.”

Jaime would have liked to dissent, but Robert had already grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in an embrace. Then he’d proceeded to make Tyrion just as uncomfortable. Once he’d reached Cersei he’d snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. Jaime saw her tense up, and his instincts flared up.  _ I am not your property _ , he remembered.

Robert turned to Tyrion. “I am so glad you accepted my offer.”

Cersei lowered her eyes, Jaime stared ahead, defiantly. Robert didn’t budge an inch. So he had the gall to pretend this had been his idea. Jaime might have laughed.  _ You can’t bear to lose. _ Tyrion preceded any reaction from both his siblings, playing along to avoid conflict. “I am very glad you thought of me, Robert,” he said, and invited him in. Jaime and Cersei remained a moment longer on the patio. Robert and Tyrion’s voice inside the house barely reached their ear, as a gust of wind picked up. He watched Cersei’s beautiful golden hair billow in the wind.  _ Fuck, she is beautiful. _

All of a sudden she spun on her heel and headed inside, but before he knew it his hand had shot out to grab her by the wrist, forcing her to turn around and look at him. There they stood, silent, for more than they should have. The wind ceased, and everything around them seemed to be perfectly still, awaiting for something,  _ anything _ . Cersei didn’t even blink, Jaime was sure he would melt.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, swallowing his pride. “For the way I acted. I know you’re not my property.” He followed Cersei’s eyes to the place where he was still gripping her wrist. His mouth was saying one thing, his body was saying another. He let go, slowly, fully expecting her to stalk away in anger.

Except she didn’t. That was when the wind picked up again. He studied her face, she was frowning. What was she thinking? Instead of taking a step back she took a step forward. Jaime’s mouth went dry.  _ What is she doing? _ Why wasn’t she leaving? Why wasn’t  _ he _ leaving? Jaime’s feet were glued to the ground.

“Thank you,” she said.

Then she went. Cersei never told him for what he was thanking him that day. But he knew: she was thanking him for caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELIUM:
> 
> Cersei stopped, looked around and shook her head. “I don’t dance.”
> 
> “Tonight you do.”


	6. wicked games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they dance a dangerous dance.

The night sky was clear, thank goodness. Jaime and Tyrion arrived at the venue as fashionably late as one would have expected them to. Dartmouth House in Mayfair was a splendid venue, but he was not surprised. Whatever else she might not have – tact, sensibility, rationality, - Cersei did not lack a taste for finer things. The venue had been decorated all white and gold. A marriage between the families, Jaime would have wagered. Both the Lannister and the Baratheon crests had golden in them.

Jaime had worn a deep burgundy suit and tie, with a white shirt underneath. Tyrion had opted for a more sober outfit: a tuxedo, black tie. He did not like to draw attention… not more than he already did with his condition. The place was crowded already, all people who mattered were there. Most politicians, a few celebrities. Jaime could have sworn he’d seen one of the Spice Girls, although he could not remember which one it was. Definitely not Posh, though.

“You know, I have known this woman for less than a month, but I must say…” Tyrion made a full spin on himself, taking it all in. “I’m impressed.”

Cersei had taken the situation and turned it around. It was no longer a scandal, something to be talked about behind their backs. It was an event, a grand reunion, the warm story of a prodigal daughter and the brother who had found her. The people had fallen in love with the story just like they had with Princess Diana’s back in the day.  _ Give them something to feel passionate about, something to root for, and you’ll have them on your side _ . His sister’s words.

The gala was for charity, but it was the first event Cersei held with her new name. The invitation had read  _ Cersei Lannister invites you _ . When the envelope had been delivered Jaime’s chest had tightened, and his heart had grown two sizes. Everything was falling into place.  _ She  _ had fallen into place.

And like that, like she had heard his thoughts, she appeared amidst the crowd, looking beautiful and radiant like she always did.  _ His sister _ . He liked to think the words, say them out loud. She had worn white for the occasion, but no one could ever say she mixed with the background. The dress hugged her midsection tight, pushing her breasts up with the sleeveless corset; it was adorned with small red drops, rubies. At the waist the fabric became softer, sliding down her legs like waves. Jaime let breathed out: how long had he been staring?

She was talking to someone Jaime did not know: a bald man, not much shorter than her sister. It was the man who saw him and Tyrion first. He whispered something to Cersei’s ear, and she immediately turned to notice them. The man disappeared into the crowd, while Cersei made her way towards them.

“You’re late,” she said, bending to kiss Tyrion’s cheek. “Later than me, if that’s even possible.” She kissed Jaime’s cheek as well, but Jaime was taller. Kissing him meant she had to go on her tip-toes, the whole length of her pressed against him. Jaime hadn’t even had the time to feel her and the proximity was gone.

“I’m sure you got dressed much faster than him,” Tyrion told her, mocking him.

Jaime shot him a scathing look before addressing her again. “You look beautiful.”

Cersei tilted her head and said nothing.  _ How many times has she been told that tonight? _

“Come, let me show you our table.”

_ Our table _ . Jaime and Tyrion followed her. Every now and then she’d stop to introduce them to some of her friends. These, Jaime thought, were all the people he had never been interested in knowing in spite of his father’s insistence. By all means, everyone knew him but he had no idea who any of these people were. Cersei, instead, moved with elegance, navigated the venue with the confidence of someone who holds everyone in the palm of her hand.  _ Perhaps she does. _

Once they reached their table, Jaime saw the same man from before sitting down. He stood up and extended a hand for him to shake. “Good evening, Mr. Lannister, my name is Varys. I am…Robert Baratheon’s special consultant.” Jaime shook his hand, as did Tyrion.

Jaime skimmed the people around the table. On Varys’ left was a very young man, barely of age, who seemed extremely out of place. The couple next to Varys he recognized. “Eddard,” Jaime said. “I must say I’m surprised. When was the last time you graced London with your presence?” Eddard did not stand up, nor did the redhead at his side. “You must be Catelyn.”

It was a tense situation. In short, Eddard Stark had beef with Tywin Lannister, who was Aerys Targaryen’s best friend, who in turn had beef with Eddard Stark’s father and older brother and was responsible for their untimely demise. It was all very unofficial, but also very true. Now Eddard Stark seemed ready to hate the son in absence of the father. Jaime didn’t care much what anyone thought of him, much less Eddard Stark.

Dinner was not unbearable, mostly because he was sitting between Tyrion and Cersei. Robert had ways to get on his nerves, but he seemed to be too deep in talks with Eddard Stark and his wife to pay them any mind. Jaime was glad for that, because that meant he had Cersei’s attention. For some reason, it was important to him.

He just didn’t know why.

 

* * *

Jaime had donated a fair amount of money to a cause he did not really care about, nor did he know anything about. Was it orphans? Stray dogs? Terminal cancer? Jaime was bored. This was exactly the sort of life he had tried his very best to  _ not have.  _ The life his mother would have wanted, the life his mother had led. Cersei did all of that effortlessly. He couldn’t stop admiring her strength: she was good at all the things he hated most.  _ She is my complement. _

The party was dying down. His eyes scanned the few people on the dancefloor, dancing one last slow ballad. Had Cersei danced at all?  _ Robert has not asked _ . Jaime’s hatred for the man grew day by day, with the knowledge that he did not appreciate the gift he had by his side.

“Let’s go,” he said during dessert. Cersei didn’t understand what he was saying, so he took her by the hand. She rose without questioning him further, and that pleased him.  _ She trusts me _ . Jaime met Tyrion’s glare but decided he would not concern himself with what his little brother did or did not think. He held Cersei’s hand in his and headed for the middle of the venue, where everyone else was swaying to the music.

Cersei stopped, looked around and shook her head. “I don’t dance.”

“Tonight you do.”

She was perfectly still, while everyone around them paid them little to no mind. It was paining her, and Jaime did not understand why: had she ever let her guard down? A storm raged inside her, perfectly contained by the ties that she had created around them. He wanted to see her raw, undone. He felt weirdly entitled to it.

She caved. The imperceptible smile that played upon her lips did not escape him. He grabbed one hand, snaked his arm around her waist and they began to sway to the music. Jaime wondered if they looked as beautiful as he thought they would.

“Your sisters didn’t come?”

Cersei lifted an eyebrow. “They are not my sisters.”

That made him proud, and he chuckled. “But they were,” Jaime insisted. “And for quite a long time as well.”

Cersei’s hand slid up his arm and came to rest on his shoulder. “They weren’t happy. Called it a  _ stunt _ . Said I was smearing father’s name.” He was suddenly very aware of her fingertips grazing the collar of his shirt. “They think I should have kept this matter private.”

“Well, they’re wrong, aren’t they?” Jaime rebuked, childish. He tightened his grip on her waist, pressing her into him, like he was afraid she might float away. Cersei’s eyes narrowed; she always seemed enthused with his antics. Jaime liked her curiosity.

The music was fading out, but before silence could envelop them it transitioned into a new one. Jaime looked towards the small stage where the quartet was playing. Cersei’s hand slid to the back of his neck, stepping even closer. Now she had her cheek on his chest, small as she was he engulfed her.

“What was it like?” Jaime asked. “Growing up in Castamere with them.” Jaime remembered something about the deaths of Roger Reyne and his wife; a car accident, according to most news outlets. So her life must have consisted mostly of her sisters.

“They didn’t like me very much,” she said. “And I did not like them. They have always been vain, shallow. They had no ambition. Also, there was a significant detail…” She trailed off and Jaime waited. She tilted her head, her chin still on his chest. Jaime thought he might drown in her green eyes. “I was more beautiful and they hated me for it.”

Jaime laughed at that, a hearty, sincere laugh. “Bet you were,” he agreed, holding her tighter.

But Cersei was lost in her thoughts. She was watching him closely, manifestly lost in a maze of her own creation. “Jaime…” she uttered, linking her arms behind his neck and pulling him down until her lips were level with his ear and she could whisper in it. As she spoke, her lips brushed against his earlobe. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

There was a neediness in her tone. Jaime was sure she’d grown tired of people telling her how beautiful she was. He, on his part, could not stop thinking about her breasts pressed against him, and her perfume filling his nostrils, and her hair tickling the side of his face. All of him tensed, alert.

“The most beautiful woman in the world.” The words had come out weak, raspy. The music was coming to an end once again. And to Jaime’s dismay, he was getting hard against her stomach. She must have noticed, because she looked at him with wide eyes. He disentangled himself as elegantly as he could, keeping his eyes on his shoes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what…”  Cersei never knew what he didn’t know, for he spun on his heels and left the dancefloor.

“Jaime, wait-” But her words were lost in the crowd.

He wanted to bury himself so deep beneath the ground and never come out again. He passed Tyrion on his way out: he ignored his little brother’s queries and continued to walk, ears ringing, blood pumping in his veins. He bumped into several people, someone even mumbled about  _ manners _ . But Jaime didn’t care, all he wanted was to get out of there. He got inside a taxi blindly, barked his instructions to the driver and abandoned his head against the backseat.

_ Well, there goes that. _

 

* * *

When he returned home, Tyrion found him in his bedroom, lying on the bed. He had switched off all the lights, and was nursing his third scotch of the night. It was safe to say he was fairly drunk by now. He shifted on his side to watch his brother come in. Some of the amber liquid stained the fine sheets.

“What have you done?” Tyrion asked.

“I fucked it up.” He was extraordinarily whiny when he was drunk, more than one person had told him that.

“Is that why she’s in the dining room, and won’t leave until she sees you?”

Jaime sat up, startled. It made his head spin, and his stomach threatened to reject everything he had ingested since the night had started going south. “She’s here?”

“Jaime, what have you done?” Tyrion repeated, not one to be fooled, or distracted by shiny non-sense.

Jaime stumbled from the bed, glass of scotch still in his hand, unsteady on his feet. “I have to talk to her,” he slurred. Tyrion put himself between him and the door, snatching the glass from him. “Let me through,” Jaime said, low and dark.

“You’re not yourself,” Tyrion said calmly.

“I am more myself than I have ever been!” Jaime yelled. Tyrion was evidently taken aback by the outburst. When was the last time they had fought? Had Jaime even ever truly yelled at him with such heat? “Let me through, Tyrion,” he repeated.

Defeated, Tyrion stepped aside. Jaime had forgotten about the scotch, he just stumbled outside his room and down the corridor, down the large staircase. A glimpse in the mirror told him all he needed to know: his eyes were hooded, his shirt stained down the front, his hair messy and the tie unknotted. He swallowed and made his way toward the dining room. It was empty, no sign of Cersei. But there was a door on the left, a door he did not like to go in. It was open.

Jaime halted on that threshold. She had not switched on the lights, preferring the light blue moonlight. Seeing her in what had been Joanna’s study tugged at his heartstrings. Cersei looked so much like Joanna he blinked twice to be sure it was her, and not some ghost come back to haunt him from a distant past.

Seeing him, she rose.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“You left in a hurry.”

“Yeah,” he said, falling against the wall with a certain momentum. “Sorry about that.”

It was a shame she should have to see him like this. She, who made everything around her look dim and bland. She looked perfect even now, with her long hair in disarray and the mascara smudged in the corner of her eye. She who was suddenly the centre of the universe. She, who was the sun, while he was nothing but an asteroid.

“Jaime I’m-”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Cersei interrupted him, taking a step forward, wringing her fingers.

“What for?”

“Because I’m not used to this.” Jaime didn’t intervene. He could see her eyes were glistening in the dark. “To you. Three weeks ago you waltzed into my life and you sprung this on me.”

Jaime’s head was pounding now, he had no idea what was happening around him. “And now you wish I hadn’t,” he said, half mumbling again, half eating his words. “So why are you here now?”

“What happened tonight…” Jaime grimaced at the memory, or it was the sensation that he would throw up any minute now. “…I knew what I was doing.” Jaime squinted, trying to clear his mind of the fog. Was she saying she’d done that on purpose? “All my life, I used sex to get what I wanted. I found people only listened to me when they thought they might get something in return.”

Jaime chuckled. He slid down the wall and sat down on the hardwood floor; he used to play with his toy soldiers in that same room, while Joanna painted. Now his mother was gone, and his sister… His sister was a mystery.

“You don’t have to do that with me,” he said, eyes closed. “I’m your brother. I will always listen to you.” Perhaps if he fell asleep now he would keep the liquor down and spare her the sight of him retching. He would not insult his mother’s memory, either, as it still walked amongst those walls. His ears picked up the clacking of her heels, a rustling… then the warmth at his side. He mustered enough courage to open his eyes and find her sitting beside him, on the floor. “That dress will not be white when you get up.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered, resting her head upon his shoulder. She took his hand in hers, in her lap, and intertwined her fingers with his. “I’m glad you told me.”

Jaime smiled to himself, squeezed her hand and closed his eyes once more, at peace. “I’m glad I told you.”

Then, sleep won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the people who keep reading and commenting: you are the true heroes.   
> And to Ashley: I would be nowhere if it weren't for you.  
> f.
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT ON PERIHELIUM:
> 
> “Who did this to you?” he asked, voice lathered in contempt. Cersei shook her head no, and Jaime’s blood reached boiling temperature. “Cersei-”
> 
> “Can I spend the night here?” she asked. There was nothing vulnerable or small about her voice, and how she spoke her words. She was still every bit as commanding as one would expect her to be. Jaime knew she was doing her best to keep her image intact, but he could see through the cracks.


	7. recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she heals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello gremlins - I say that with the utmost affection. It's that time of the week again, and I come to you bearing gifts! The chapter's title is "Recovery", implying heavy stuff. Please be mindful, as always. Thank you for always taking the time to leave a few words: I'm a Libra, I thrive on encouragement and validation, I'm a needy bitch, so never ever stop! And thank you Ashley, for kicking my doubts away whenever I'm close to drowning among them.  
> See you at the end of the chapter for a preview of the next one!  
> f.

June rolled by, transitioning into July. As the city filled with tourists, most Londoners had already vacated the city. The city was a death trap, heat rising from the curbs. Jaime was in the middle of a meeting and could not stop thinking of the following week, when he could stop pretending he had any interest in what his late father’s lackeys were saying and go on vacation. Tyrion would be much better suited for this.

Mister Pycelle was going on about the acquisition, when the young receptionist barged in. “Mister Lannister, your… sister is in your office.” Jaime noticed how the word  _ sister _ had sounded strained. He’d fucked the receptionist, of course. He’d fucked all the women of Lannister Ltd., granted they were somewhat attractive.

“Forgive me, gentlemen, family calls. And you knew what my father always said…” he trailed off for dramatic effect. “Nothing is more important than family.” He was quick on his feet and out the conference room, the young woman in tow. He walked down the long glass corridor, and reached the large mahogany door that hid his father’s office, now his own. He pushed the door open, and the receptionist made to follow him. “Thank you, Cassie,” he said. “I can handle her.”

It had been a couple of weeks since the gala. His encounters with Cersei had become more frequent, but were now tainted by a strange atmosphere of unsaid. They were close, and growing closer by the minute. But there was something about the electricity whenever they shared a room. It would have unsettled any grown man.

Closing the door, he unbuttoned his jacket and made a big show of turning around with arms open, welcoming. “Cersei. This is a first.” She stood by the window, looking down on the little people twenty floors below. The sky was gloomy, grey, but his sister still glimmered. Jaime crossed the room, reached for her and kissed her cheek. “What are you doing here?”

Cersei shrugged. “I’m here for my share.”

Jaime was arrogant. He was a douche on most days. But nothing,  _ nothing _ would have prepared him for that. “Excuse me?”

“The company,” Cersei explained, pulling out Tywin’s large swivelling chair and sitting down on it. Jaime should have stopped her, but he was still too confused about the whole ordeal to do or say anything coherent. Cersei’s fingers caressed the desk, her fingers tapping on it lightly as if to assert its solidity. “You said I could have anything I wanted,” she continued, leaning into the leather and spinning enough to face him. “I want this.”

Jaime unbuttoned his collar, as the room felt suddenly very narrow. He circled the desk and sat down on the chair meant for guests and clients: not exactly what Tywin might have wanted. He passed his fingers through his hair. She had not averted her eyes for a split second. “It’s impossible,” he said finally.

“Why,” it wasn’t even a question, but rather a command.

“Because Father left very specific instructions before he-”

“He didn’t mention me. Those were just about Tyrion.” She was relentless, had done her homework. “You said so yourself.” Yes, he had, back when he had no idea it would come back to bite him in the ass.

Truthfully, he didn’t care about the company or about Tywin’s legacy. And if it would make her happy, well… he wanted her to be happy. He had thought it would mean money, jewellery… But what his sister craved was power. In that, she was different from most.

“I don’t mean to be head of the company,” she said, and Jaime knew she had left out a  _ yet _ . “But I do want to be a part of it. Please Jaime,” she finished, and her voice was sweeter, like honey. Jaime found he could scarcely resist her when she looked at him like that. It seemed to him in these moments he could peak into what she must have been like when she was younger.

“Let me speak to the board,” he concluded, tired. Cersei’s face lit up at that agreement. “I’m not making any promises,” he added with some caution. But Cersei was already on her feet, with her arms around his neck, hugging him from behind.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and kissed his cheek. He liked it when she kissed his cheek. “You’re the best brother.”

“You only have two.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her face still level with his. “But I like you best.”

 

* * *

 

He didn’t hear or see from her for a week, after that, and he was starting to wonder. There seemed to be no news from her in the newspapers either. Robert was always around, but where was Cersei? What was she doing? It was unlike her to drop off the face of the Earth, as she loved the attention. He thought about calling her, often, but after she’d told him not to treat her like property he was wary. What counted as brotherly concern, and what counted as territoriality? All of this was new to him, Tyrion had never been so… evanescent.

He did not have good news for her, anyway. Jaime had spoken to the board, brought up the matter of Cersei’s rights. The old men had not shared the same concerns as Jaime: first of all, how could they know for sure Cersei was Tywin’s daughter? “He would have mentioned it,” his uncle Kevan had grumbled. They went on, saying Tywin had never even let Joanna have a role in Lannister Ltd., how could Jaime think he would agree to this, if he were alive?  _ But he is not _ , Jaime had rebuked,  _ which is the point _ . Discussing had been useless, and they had all decided to adjourn to the following week, after the summer holidays.

He was packing. Tyrion had already left for Tenerife a few days before. There was a villa on the beach, where they usually spent the summer vacation, surrounded by beautiful women in skimpy swimsuits, just desperate to spread their legs for him. Jaime was eager to go, to unload his burdens.

Then, the doorbell rang.

It was strange, people didn’t usually just walk up to the main door in Casterly Rock, unless the guards knew to let them through. He heard voices downstairs and went to check on the visitor; he halted on top of the stairs looking down on the huge entrance hall, and he recognized her immediately. The blonde hair, the elegant posture, the whole room seemed to tremble in her presence.

“Cersei?”

She looked up. Her face was half covered with huge, dark sunglasses, her hair ran loose and wavy down her shoulders; she wore a suit, a black suit, nothing colourful. It was only once he’d started walking down the stairs that he noticed the thick bandages wrapped around her wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve.

He chuckled. “Oh there’s a joke in there, something about women and wrists, but you’re my sister and I just won’t go there.”

It struck him that she didn’t laugh, nor have a snarky remark for him. And then he saw the purple blossoming on her cheekbone, under the sunglasses. He frowned, as he approached her. Cersei wasn’t speaking, thoroughly uncharacteristic of her. She was within arm’s reach now, so what he did was take off her sunglasses. Her eyes did not betray any emotion but shame, as she looked down immediately. Yes, there was a bruise there, quite large as well, starting right underneath the eye.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, voice lathered in contempt. Cersei shook her head  _ no _ , and Jaime’s blood reached boiling temperature. “Cersei-”

“Can I spend the night here?” she asked. There was nothing vulnerable or small about her voice, and how she spoke her words. She was still every bit as commanding as one would expect her to be. Jaime knew she was doing her best to keep her image intact, but he could see through the cracks.

“Yes,” he said right away. “Of course you can.”

A butler appeared at the top of the staircase with Jaime’s suitcases.

“Were you going somewhere?” Cersei asked.

“No,” Jaime said, “I’m staying right here.”

 

* * *

Jaime could not give a name to what moved inside him, as he watched Cersei precede him down the corridor, towards the guestroom. There was rage in there, definitely: she still wouldn’t tell him what happened, but Jaime knew whomever was responsible for it would pay, he would make sure of it. Then there was awe: for the way she carried herself in spite of the humiliation, and for how she hid her pain. Of course, he felt affection, he wanted to hug her and tell her he was there for her, and that he would protect her.

But there was also something else: the beast in his stomach was growling, sharpening knives. Jaime had never felt that sensation, but he wondered if that was what it felt like to be  _ murderous _ . He could kill, and regret none of it.

It had taken the help less than one hour to ready the guestroom. It had been months since someone had used it, if Jaime remembered correctly it had been his uncle Kevan. He made a mental note to pick one of the guestrooms and just assign it to her; it was only right she’d have her own room, as this was her  _ home _ too, she was not just any guest.

He wasn’t speaking, nor was Cersei. She looked around the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Jaime thought she looked defeated, and wished he could make it go away, but he had no idea how.

With her good hand, she tried to shrug off the jacket; seeing her struggle, he rushed to her side and helped her take it off. He threw it onto the nearest chair and… he did not know what to do. He stood there, in the middle of the bedroom, feeling useless.

“Do you need help undressing?” he tried.

“I don’t have any clothes,” she pointed out.

“I can find something for you. Or I’ll send someone to buy something, I don’t care.”

“I’m fine, for now. Just… help me with the shoes, please?”

Thankful that he could do something instead of just standing there, he went on one knee and helped untie the hellish strings that kept her stilettos on her feet. “How did you ever manage to get into these trap-holes?”

Jaime looked up and saw her smile for the first time since she’d gotten there. It calmed his beating heart. Furious as he was, to see her smile was more important. He managed taking off the one shoe, then moved on to the second one. In doing that, he caught glimpse of a second bruise on her shin. His hands halted briefly, but then he continued and pretended like he hadn’t seen that.

Had she fallen? Had she been pushed? Had someone tried to take advantage of her? Had someone managed? Jaime swallowed, trying hard to keep himself under control. His hands were shaking, so he made fists to still them.

“Where were you going?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

Jaime sat down next to her, determined. He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing its palm. “The girls in Tenerife are going to have to deal without me, this time around.” He attempted a light-hearted joke and he succeeded, because she rolled her eyes and bumped her shoulder against his. “There’s no place I’d rather be, Cers.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Cersei pulled her hand from his. Jaime thought it was bizarre; she was his sister, so why would she shy away from public contact? It was the butler, come to warn that dinner would be ready around 7pm and  _ ‘does Madame eat salmon?’ _ Cersei nodded.

“I have to call Tyrion and tell him I’m not going,” Jaime said, “If you need anything, just…”

“I’ll shout really loud.”

 

* * *

Dinner was fine, though Cersei’s light was dimmed. When they were done eating, Cersei insisted they should go for a stroll out in the grounds, and Jaime complied. She was still wearing the same outfit as before, minus the jacket, which he assumed she’d left in her room. The evening was chill, the sky still pink from the sunset. She’d worn a pair of bejewelled sandals which Jaime had given her – from Joanna’s closet.

So they passed by the tennis courts, the stables, the help’s quarters, and finally she decided to rest her feet in the tepid water by the pool. He helped her sit, holding on to her good hand, then sat down next to her and rolled his trousers up to his knees. She kicked the water now and then, making tiny waves into the pool. The sloshing sounds accompanied them for a few minutes, before any of them said a word.

“What was she like?” Cersei asked, out of the blue.

Jaime glanced sideways at the sandals she had discarded a few feet away. “Beautiful,” he began, trying to bring Joanna’s memory out from the imaginary drawer he’d confined it to. “But ruthless. Demanding.”

“Was she kind?”

“She was warm. In a way Tywin never was,” Jaime remembered. He had been young, and his memories of his mother had begun to fade. “She loved her children, fiercely.” Cersei scoffed, and Jaime knew what she was thinking then. “I don’t think she ever knew you survived birth. I think they told her only one had made it. Otherwise she never would have stood by it.”

Cersei was not convinced, but dropped the subject all the same. Jaime wanted to help her and say something that would ease her restless spirit. He had nothing, nothing at all. So he waited for her dust to settle. At some point she shivered, and he wished he had something to offer, a jacket, anything, no matter how cliché.

“You don’t have children,” he said. Not a question, a statement. Cersei didn’t give any sign that she’d heard him. “Why?”

“That’s not polite.”

“I don’t care what’s polite and what isn’t.”

That gave her pause. She turned, shot him a pointed glare. Jaime didn’t flinch; he didn’t care about being careful, not with her, and something told him she’d appreciate it. “I don’t want his children,” she replied. The innocence in her phrase was deafening.

“Do you hate him?” Cersei did not answer. “Is that why you’re here?”

Cersei pulled her legs from the water and used her good hand to lean on him and stand up. Jaime did not regret breaching the subject; he needed someone to address his rage at, and Robert was as good an option as any. But she wasn’t of the same mind, as she slipped Joanna’s sandals back on. “It’s getting chilly,” she said. “Let’s go back inside, before we catch a cold.” Jaime waited, felt her hover behind him. There it was, once more, the anger. Someone had to pay for what happened to her. “Jaime, please, let’s go.”

He could not ignore the pleading in her voice. He knew what she was asking of him, to let it go, to not do anything rash, to not endanger himself for the sake of her. It was way too late for that, though: Jaime knew he would risk his own life, if only she asked. At last, he stood up and followed her back inside the house.

 

* * *

The Rock had walls of stone, thick and discreet. Upon their return most of the servants had retired to their quarters – as Jaime had instructed. The whole building witnessed as they walked up the staircase. Jaime could have sworn every painting had its eyes on them, watchful. He felt eager for something, he did not know why. As he accompanied her to her bedroom, there was a sense of… expectation, in him. She cast him a glance over her shoulder, like she was making sure he was following.  _ Where could I go? _ Step after step, his feet padded on the carpet, like he was trying to hide something. What?

There was the door, her door. “Can you help me undress?”

Jaime nodded.

She walked ahead of him, he closed the door and considered switching the light on. Cersei waited for him, eyes cast downwards.  _ Is she ashamed? _ Eventually, he walked in darkness, towards her. He wanted to hug her, to hold her close. He wanted to feel every nook of her body against his and learn, at once, what being whole meant. She kept her wrist close to her chest with her other hand; he went for the skirt first. The button, the zipper, he slid it over her hips and down her thighs. His thumb brushed against the skin, then the lace of her stockings and he swallowed. Cersei stepped out of the garment, made no move to collect it from the floor.

“I can take this,” she whispered, her good hand working on the first few buttons of her blouse.

Jaime shook his head no. “I’ll do it.” He did not recognize himself in his own voice. Cersei did not protest like he’d half expected her to. She let her arms fall at her sides and waited. Her eyes sought after his, but he was focused on  _ not _ meeting that stare for fear of what he might see in it.  _ What am I doing? _ His fingers worked on the first button, then the second. As soon as the cleavage was visible, his hands began to tremble. Could she see that? Could she  _ feel  _ that? Third button, fourth button. Her breasts peaked from the lacy black white bra. Fifth button, sixth button. Her navel was taunting him. Seventh button. The blouse fell open, showing her front to him. He circled around her and slid the blouse off her shoulders, careful to be as gentle as possible on the offended arm. Now, with her blouse in his hands, he halted all movements and just… looked at her. At her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the swell of her buttocks and the thin white cotton that did a terrible job at concealing it.

And as he waited and looked on, her hand came up behind and reached the clasp of her bra and undid it. Jaime’s breath caught in his throat. She tossed the bra aside, without a care in the world. Then she glanced over her shoulder once more.

“The shirt…” she mentioned, gesturing to the bed.

He remembered the shirt he’d given her earlier in the day, to sleep in. It was one of his, it would be a terrible fit. But most of Joanna’s clothes were in storage, finding the shoes had been a feat already. “Lift your arms,” he said. And she did. It sent a shiver up his spine, to see her obedient. He wondered what else he could make her do, only briefly. He helped slide her wrist inside the sleeves, then pushed the shirt down over her torso. The hem reached her mid-thigh, and just like that the spell was broken.

Until…

“Sleep here?”

She was still facing away. Motionless, she had spoken. Jaime let the seconds go by. He could have drawn a map of her back already, and he’d only witnessed the miracle of her creation but for seconds, and in darkness. “Yes,” he breathed out. She did not thank him that time. Instead she climbed into bed, over the comforter, and waited. Jaime unbuckled his belt, took off his pants. There was nothing he could do to hide his erection, and he did not try to.

“It’s alright,” she spoke from the bed, softly, like she’d read his thoughts.

“Why?” He could not keep himself from asking that, confused. His temples were pulsating, as were his veins. His heart, as well. Every organ was threatening to burst and decay, but  _ live _ .

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Jaime climbed into bed with her, and for a while they both looked at the ceiling, hands on their stomachs, uneasy. Then Cersei rolled on her side. “Hold me?” He snaked his arm around her waist and did as she asked. He didn’t care that she would feel him hard against her back, or that she would feel him quiver. He held her and it felt right. He breathed her in, burying his face in her hair, kept her tight against him. She dug her fingers in the skin of his forearms, and Jaime knew he’d felt her body shaken by a hiccup. Was she crying? He didn’t ask.

Eventually, they fell asleep.

 

* * *

When he opened his eyes next it was still dark outside. Chirping reached his ears, coming from the open window. A gentle breeze moved the curtains, making the night bearable. His neck was sweaty, his hair stuck to his nape. He rolled on his side; Cersei had rolled in her sleep, ending on her back, one hand under the pillow and the other draped over her stomach. She faced the other way, shielded by wild golden locks. Jaime propped his head on one hand and studied her for a brief moment. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, slow, deep. Her slender legs were angled away from him. Behind her eyelids, he could see she was dreaming, restless. He couldn’t see the bruise on her face like that.

With one finger he grazed her collarbone, where sweat was beaming. Moist, he brought the tip of his index to his lips and tongue. It was salty, and it tasted like something vaguely familiar. His curiosity got the best of him and he was gripped by a need to explore the body he was denied. With the same finger he traced his way down the front of her shirt, across her sternum, between her breasts. What he wouldn’t give to feel the flesh there, rather than the cotton. She stirred and he halted, perfectly still. Her eyes were still closed, and she seemed peacefully asleep.

So he kept going. He reached the hem of her shirt, which had hitched up her sides, leaving her bellybutton uncovered. Her skin was warm there, so he allowed himself to bask in her warmth; he touched her hips, the one furthest from him. Underneath the skin, he could feel the bone stretching it. He resisted the urge to squeeze the skin and flesh, and continued his journey. As he travelled from one hip to the other, his fingertips brushed the elastic of her underwear. Decidedly, he ignored the voice in his head that told him he could, he  _ should _ . Onto her other hip, and further down over her thighs, this time with his palm fully open to cover as much as he could.

Transfixed as he was, he never noticed her breathing pattern had changed.

“Jaime.”

He pulled away like he’d been burnt. When he looked up her eyes were open, confusion painted across her features. He lay back, eyes on the ceiling above them, thinking: what he said next suddenly carried weight.

“I should know it,” he said. He did not have the courage to turn his face and look at her, terrified of the judgment he would find there. “Your body. I should know it. I keep thinking, I should know it.” He picked up on Cersei’s breathing, and upon noticing no changes nor traces of interruption he continued. “I know I don’t own you. But I’m owed you.”

A shift on the mattress signalled Cersei had moved. Jaime finally turned his head to the side, and found her standing inches from him, an amused expression on her face.

“I have a small mole behind my left ear in the shape of a pear,” she began, calmly. “When I was sixteen I fell off a horse. I have a scar on my left knee because of that. My hair is not naturally straight, it’s curly, but it’s unmanageable, so I had it treated, chemically. I got lip fillers once, hated it.” Jaime listened, enthralled. He could picture every moment of the life they had not shared, clear as day. “My fingers are wonky. I can bend them all the way back to my wrist-”

“Me too!” he chimed in, enthusiastically, and that made her smile.

Sometime in between her sentences, she’d slipped a hand over his, and now their fingers were entwined. Neither seemed to notice, neither seemed to care. “Your turn,” she said.

Jaime rolled on his side as well. There they were, facing each other, perfectly mirrored.

“I can curl my tongue,” he said, and wondered why that was the first thing that came to mind. “I didn’t get my first facial hair until I was sixteen.”

“Late bloomer,” Cersei smirked.

“Father was growing concerned,” he admitted, remembering Tywin’s insistence that he use his razor even when he had nothing to shave. “What else, oh this scar.” He pointed at the thin line in between his pectorals, about three inches long. “Fencing accident.”

Unexpectedly, Cersei’s long fingers traced the length of his scar.

“Did it hurt?”

“It wasn’t  _ pleasant _ .”

Oh the sound of her laughter, Jaime thought he could hear it for the rest of his life.

That night, it was as if Cersei had forgotten about the bruise on her cheekbone.

Jaime had not.

 

* * *

They were in the middle of breakfast when the doorbell rang, the following morning. They were surprised, the both of them.  _ Tyrion? _ Jaime thought maybe his brother had decided to join them. He had seemed disturbed after Jaime’s phone call, even concerned when he’d brought up the markings on Cersei’s face.

“Sir,” came the butler’s voice. “Two gentlemen are here for Mrs Baratheon.”

“Who is it?” Jaime asked, frowning.

“I believe they said they work for Mr Baratheon, sir,” he said, clearly uncomfortable.

Jaime shot on his feet. “Jaime wait,” Cersei’s feeble voice didn’t even reach his ears, he was already stalking towards the entrance. His hands were balled into fists, his jaw set, made of steel. Upon arriving in the hall, he saw two men waiting around; both were extremely well dressed and the tiny earpieces gave out that they belonged to Robert’s security.

“How can I help you?” he said, feigning courtesy. Cersei followed right behind. It was her the men focused on.

“Mrs Baratheon, we’re here to escort you home.”

Jaime had to restrain himself from lashing out. He held out an arm, keeping Cersei back. “There is a misunderstanding. My sister will not join you today,” he said, flashing a smile. “As a matter of fact, we were just leaving.”

“Mister Baratheon insisted.”

“Robert Baratheon is not here, is he?”

The two men were at a loss. They had specific orders, but it was clear they would not drag Cersei away, not with Jaime standing between them. In fact, they seemed reluctant to touch the woman, and almost grateful for Jaime’s intermission. “Listen, I don’t like this, but I have orders.”

“What’s your name, boy?” Jaime took a step forward, then another. Until they were toe to toe.

“Edric, sir.”

“Well, Edric,” Jaime lowered his voice so that only Edric could hear him. “Tell Robert Baratheon if he ever touches my sister again I will personally cut off his ball sack and shove it down his throat.” The boy tensed up, Jaime patted his shoulder in a friendly gesture.

They had heard enough. With a small nod in Cersei’s direction, the two men left the same way they had arrived. Jaime walked up to Cersei, whose face betrayed admiration. “What did you tell them?” she asked.

“I told them we’re going to Tenerife.”

“What-”

“Let’s go.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe. Let’s go.”

“I don’t have any clothes.”

“Let’s go.”

“But I don’t-”

Jaime put his hand before her mouth to silence her. Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s go,” he said, pointed. He pulled his hand from her mouth slowly, and when Cersei did not immediately reply with her usual doubts, he lifted an eyebrow.

“Fine,” she said, spinning on her heels and running up the stairs. “But I’ll have someone bring me all my bathing suits, and my sundresses, and my sandals, and I bought the nicest bag in Saint Tropez in December, it’s not even out yet, I’m one of three people in the  _ world _ who have it, and-”

Jaime was no longer listening to her. He was content with watching her run, and even when she was no longer in sight he kept grinning to himself. He could make her happy, if she let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> “Jaime, what are you doing?” Tyrion asked out of the blue, simply.
> 
> “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” At last, he allowed himself to look at his brother, and what he found there was understanding. That spurred him to admit something he had not yet admitted to himself. “It’s just, I forget myself when she’s around.” Candid, honest, Jaime looked to Tyrion for some sort of explanation.


	8. tenerife pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which he doesn't leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful unicorns! I will keep it short. This has to be, by far, the chapter I enjoyed writing the most. I do hope you'll enjoy it even half as much! Please know I try my best to reply to each one of you but it's becoming difficult because there's quite a few of you and just one of me, so I wanna apologize if I miss some of your comments, I read them all and I am very grateful for literally every word. You are the true rockstars.  
> Ashley, you are my world,  
> f.

She wore big, yellow sunglasses. The bruise was still there, Jaime knew, but hidden under a few layers of concealer it was barely visible. Behind the dark lenses, he could picture her curious eyes looking out, as the cab made its way across the colourful town. Tenerife was crowded, as per usual, and lively. Cersei had admitted she had never been there, so he took pride in showing her something new and beautiful.

He wanted to squeeze her solitary hand and tell her everything would be okay, but instead was content with the little ‘o’ on her lips.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Tenerife.”

“I’ve been everywhere else,” she said defensively.

“Yes but it’s Tenerife we’re talking about, Cers, that’s like vacation 101.”

Jaime liked the banter, he thought they were good at it. He pushed her buttons – the ones he knew – only to discover new ones. She pushed his and he let her.

They left the city behind them. The road skirted along the coast, water on one side, mountain on the other. Cersei’s phone began ringing in her pocket, but she silenced it as soon as she saw who was calling. Jaime was determined she should leave all her worries back in London and just relax.

“Look,” he said, finger pointing ahead. A beautiful, white villa was nestled among the tall trees, its huge windows looking out on the bay below. “That’s where we’re going.”

“Nice cave,” she replied, impressed.

The cab took a different road, less travelled and uphill. Some hairpins turn later, they halted at a tall iron-wrought gate. Jaime paid the driver and exited the car, followed by Cersei whose eyes were transfixed by the beauty of the place. Loud music came from within the premises. Jaime pressed his finger against the intercom, and it took a few awkward minutes for someone to actually answer.

“Password!” Tyrion’s evidently drunk voice welcomed them.

Embarrassed, Jaime turned his back on Cersei and spoke close to the intercom. “Come on man, don’t do this to me.”

“Password!” Tyrion repeated, laughing.

Jaime glanced over his shoulder, where Cersei was waiting, watching, listening to every word. He sighed. “Huhrmuhruhr,” he murmured.

“I can’t hear you!”

“I’m going to kill you,” Jaime hissed.

Cersei groaned and, unexpectedly, went: “It’s  _ Hear me roar _ !”

“See Jaime? She’s already so much better at this than you!” Tyrion was having the time of his life, clearly. With a huge clamour, the gate opened before them.

Jaime was confused. “How do you know the Lannister motto?”

“ _ Everyone _ knows the Lannister motto,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And everyone hates it.” With a little grin, she walked ahead, leaving him to reflect on those words. Then he ran after her, deciding it would be best to drop the subject. Tywin hated those words, too. His sister was more similar to their father than they both knew.

As they approached the building, the music grew louder. They started hearing voices, and laughter, and glasses clinking, and splashing around, and Jaime already knew what to expect, even before they turned the last corner and reached the pool.

Jaime’s lips stretched in an unwilling smile. The garden was crowded: everywhere, women and men with a glass in hand and wearing very  _ little _ . Inside the pool was an inflatable unicorn, and a dozen people throwing a ball around. There was a bar, and girls dancing provocatively, and men ogling.

Cersei lifted her sunglasses over her head. “Classy,” she said with a grimace.

Jaime chuckled. “Tyrion,” he offered as an explanation that had no intention of being an apology.

“You called?” The voice behind them made them both turn around. And here he was Tyrion, a girl on both arms, a Martini in his hand and a  _ very  _ satisfied expression on his mug. “How do I look?” He was wearing a red robe that was obviously tailored for someone much taller than he was, as it trailed behind him like a bridal train.

“That was Dad’s,” Jaime noticed.

“Yes, may he rest in peace!” Tyrion exclaimed, squeezing one of the girl’s asses and sipping from his glass. His eyes fell on Cersei who, in spite of her reluctance, seemed entertained to say the least. “Come here,” he told her. She bent to kiss his cheek, and he took the chance to whisper in her ear, “I’m drunk.”

“I can see that,” she responded to his beaming expression.

“And I plan to be drunker,” he sanctioned and left them to reach the bar, girls in tow, giggling and adoring.

Cersei watched him in awe, Jaime could see it in how she smiled from a distance. He liked that. He loved Tyrion, and he loved her. He loved them both.  _ You love her differently, though _ . Jaime shook his head and brushed away that thought, forgot it as quickly as it had presented itself. “Come,” he told her, taking her hand. “I’ll show you the house.”

 

* * *

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow on the party. It had taken her a while to get ready – Jaime assumed she wanted to cover what remained of the bruises and his heart shrunk. Yet when she’d walked out in the garden more than one head had turned in pure adoration. She looked like molten gold, with her hair cascading in waves down her back, and her bikini just as golden and shimmering. He’d licked his lips, and prayed no one had noticed. She was almost forty years old, yet her body could rival and defeat Tyrion’s twenty-somethings.

She joined them on the dais, where Tyrion helped her up, offering his hand.  _ I should have done that. _ She gracefully accepted the glass she was offered by a complete stranger – someone who would want nothing better than to get in her panties, Jaime thought. Driven by impulse, he stood up and sat down next to her. Cersei was blissfully unaware of the whispers making the rounds amongst the men.

Jaime felt himself grow impatient.

“JAMZ!”

The high-pitched shrill was instantly familiar, and a harbinger of bad news. “Oh, fuck,” Jaime whispered, pinching the bridge of his noise before turning with a grimace.

Addam was making his way through the crowd, the golden hour making his red hair a softer shade of orange. He hoisted himself up on the dais. “Motherfucker,” he huffed, “Tyrion said you weren’t coming, why the f-” He paused visibly when he saw Cersei, who was looking at him over the rim of her sunglasses. “Hello.”

Jaime had never seen Addam properly smitten. It was almost endearing. Jaime supposed Addam might look handsome to most – but Cersei was out of his league. In fact, Cersei was out of anyone’s league. Right now, she was regarding him like one would an annoying mosquito. Any moment now she would swat him away.

“You’re Addam Marbrand, aren’t you?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

“I- Yes. Yes, I am.”

_ Anytime now. _

But Cersei smiled, took a sip from her straw and put her sunglasses back on. Jaime didn’t like that. Why did she have that self-satisfied expression? What did she have in mind? Why hadn’t she shot him down? Seemingly, the same confusion plagued Addam, who shot him a quick glance. Jaime stood up angrily without a word and hopped off the dais.

“An Old-fashioned,” he asked the bartender.

 

* * *

It was the third Old-fashioned, and Cersei was on her fourth dry Martini. He had counted them, seen her walls crumble. She was more carefree, less inhibited. Watching from afar, he could see her smile at people who wouldn’t deserve an ounce of her time if she were sober. She was flipping her hair, even went as far as to let Addam help with sunscreen on her lower back.  _ Fuck you, Marbrand. _ He was brooding, plain and simple, that her attentions were not on him. Had she even noticed he had left?

“You’re grinding your teeth.”

Jaime turned to the petite brunette who was trying to flirt with him. She was cute, short pixie haircut, sharp features, bright blue eyes, small breasts but a great ass.

“Are you a dentist?” he asked, squinting.

She was apparently taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Oh God, leave,” he said, pressing his fingers against his temple.

He didn’t even see her stalk away, pissed off by his rude comment. Somehow the music was louder than before, it was thumping in his ears, in his brain. It was hard to focus. Everyone on that dais was drunker than him and he hated that, because it meant he had the clearer vision of what was going on.

She was dancing now, Tyrion spinning her around once, twice, before he let her go. And sure enough, Addam was there to catch her, his hands on her hips, her back pressed to him.  Jaime watched them sway to the beat of the music, Addam burying his face in her hair.  _ I know what her hair smells like _ . He was grinding against her, and Cersei had that knowing smile painted on. Tyrion was blissfully unaware, too preoccupied with the tongue being shoved down his throat by a busty redhead. Jaime swallowed, and thought that wasn’t  _ brotherly _ of him. Cersei was just within arm’s reach and he was not  _ watching her _ .

And as a consequence, Addam’s hand had now moved to Cersei’s stomach, flat against her skin, and his mouth was kissing the skin of her shoulder, shimmering in the sunset light. The other hand was playing with the elastic of her bathing suit, thumb dipping just beneath the fabric to brush and taste. He was whispering something in her ear, and Jaime could have sworn Cersei had flashed her teeth to show fangs, not to smile.

Jaime was sweating.

Addam spun her around and placed both hands on the small of her back, keeping her there. Jaime could see the sweat glistening on Addam’s tan arms, making him look like a statue made of bronze. Cersei looked golden. Gold should have no business mixing with copper.

Jaime was on his feet, making his way through the dozens of bodies swaying to the music. A whirlpool he paid no mind to: he was focused on Cersei and Addam. He hopped on the dais with one swift movement, made bold by alcohol. He grabbed Addam by the forearm and smiled.

“Dude, she’s drunk,” he said, polite. “Come on, leave her alone.” Cersei watched through heavy-lidded eyes, not really steady on her feet, a reed in the wind.

“Dude,” Addam snapped back, lowering his voice. “What the fuck?”

“I said, leave her alone,” Jaime repeated, politeness to the wind. He was practically growling now, eyes on fire. He turned to Cersei, grabbed her hand, “Let’s go.”

Addam stopped him, tried to stall. “I think she’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

“I think she’s drunk, otherwise she wouldn’t even  _ look _ at someone like you.”

He regretted what he’d said immediately. Addam was his best friend, he had been nothing short of a second brother to him. And there he was, spitting at him. The mood around them darkened suddenly, even Tyrion paid attention in his drunken stupor. The music kept thumping loudly around them, but tension ran high on the dais.

“I thought we were having fun,” Addam said, seeking Cersei’s eyes.

Somehow that bothered him even more, that he would have the gall to bypass him and seek  _ her _ out without asking permission first. Jaime didn’t know what came over him, but he stepped forward and pushed him off the dais, and into the water. Addam tumbled with a huge splash, and when he came up for hair he looked pissed, his red hair sticking to his forehead.

“I think I have to throw up,” came Cersei’s voice behind him.

Jaime turned to her immediately and squeezed her hand, lifted her in his arms and carried her off the dais and into the house. He didn’t care for the people looking at them, all he cared about was dragging Cersei away from their hungry eyes.  _ Will you lock her in a tower? _ The voice inside his head now sounded like Tywin’s and he loathed that.

 

* * *

Kneeling by the toilet, he held her hair while she retched. He was half drunk himself, but she was half his size and had drunk more. He waited, one hand sliding up and down her back until it turned to dry heaving. Eventually, she sat back on her heels, and Jaime offered her some toilet paper. She wiped her mouth and sat back against the wall, eyes closed. Jaime flushed the toilet for her.

“I thought I’d left my twenties behind,” she groaned, hoisting herself up and walking to the sink. She rinsed her mouth, and splashed some cold water on her face. Jaime could see the shadow of her bruise on her cheekbone, and so did she because she stared at herself for a moment longer.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, regaining her composure immediately and averting her gaze.

“Sorry about  _ him _ ,” he said. “Addam is… a good guy. He just…”

“Jaime, you don’t have to baby-sit me.”

He knew, deep inside, this was coming. He liked to think he’d rescued her, the half-assed knight in shining armour that he was. But Cersei did not like to be saved because she did not abide thinking she needed saving. His devotion irked her for whatever reason.

“Should I have let him continue?” he asked. He got up, stood in between Cersei and the door. “Someone has to look out for you.”

“I can look out for myself.”

“No you can’t,” he said. “Clearly.” His eyes, fleeting, found the bruise on her cheekbone.

The atmosphere changed after that. That was the second thing he regretted saying that day. Jaime couldn’t tell what was happening to him, he was stumbling, his brain not functioning. She had sobered up, but he was still very much on the drunken side. Still, even in his condition, he knew it had been wrong to blame her for her husband’s vile behaviour.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s not your  _ fault _ ,” the words chased one after the other, coming out slurred. Cersei wasn’t even looking at him; her eyes were focused elsewhere, though he could not say where, or when. She was absent, out of her body. “I’m sorry,” he tried again, but Cersei pushed past him and tried to open the door.

He placed both hands on the door and leaned with all his weight, trapping her there between his body and her only exit. She pressed her forehead against the door and he buried his face in her hair, thinking Addam shouldn’t have done that, no one should do that.

“Let me go,” she spat back.

“I can’t help it, you’re my sister. I have to protect you,” he hissed in her ear.

“I don’t need your protection, Jaime,” her voice sounded weaker, it reminded him of when she’d come to him broken and in need of support. She tried to be strong, but sometimes he saw her as the little girl that should have grown by his side. “Let me go,” she tried again.

He did not press further. He pushed himself off the door and stepped back. Allowing her to take the door and leave. She slammed the door behind her, he did not flinch. Her rage did not scare him, it fuelled him, because the angrier she got the more he saw himself in her. In fact, he thought they looked more like each other when they were mad.

 

* * *

When he walked out in the garden, some hours later, it looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. Plastic cups everywhere, litter all over the ground and into the pool. Everyone had left, and Jaime was sure he was alone in the baleful glow of the moonlight. The bay was silent, the seawater perfectly still. He heard a shuffling in the darkness, and saw a shape on the dais. He recognized it immediately.

“Where did your friends go?”

Tyrion had dozed off on a chaise, and was only now waking up. Jaime dragged a chair next to his and plopped down beside him. The sky was so clear he could have counted how many stars were looking down on the both of them.

“Those are not my friends,” Tyrion said. He had sobered up as well, mostly.

They were silent for a while, looking into the deep blue. Sky and sea mixed at the horizon, it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended, and his brother’s breathing was calming him after the long day. Tyrion had a power on him, he soothed his restless soul. He was the opposite of Cersei, who seemed to ignite him further.

“Where is she?” Tyrion asked, like he’d perceived his thought straying to their sister.

“I don’t know,” he said, with a deep sigh. “She’s mad at me.”

“Why is she always mad at you?”

Jaime snorted. “Go figure.”

Silence again, Jaime felt Tyrion’s eyes shift from the sky above them to the side of his face. He knew what was coming, and braced himself for it.

“That was quite a scene you made, you and Addam,” he said, not missing a beat. “When you left he raged for half an hour, called you many names. Had some for our mother, as well.” Jaime laughed because he could almost see him, red and puffy and mad and wet. “The party kinda went downhill from there.”

“Sorry for ruining it,” Jaime said, still set on not meeting his brother’s scrutiny, knowing what he would see there and deciding he did not want to hear it.

“Jaime,” Tyrion said. There was no trace of amusement in his voice, he didn’t have any intention of keeping up the naïvete. “What was that about?”

“She was  _ drunk _ , Tyrion. He was taking advantage of that. His hands were…”  _ Everywhere. _ “She was standing right beside you, you should have  _ done _ something too.” Yes, that sounded like a good course of action. Blame the other brother, paint himself as the only rational one.

“She’s a grown woman,” Tyrion pointed out.

Addam had said so, and Cersei had said so, and Jaime  _ knew _ that. It pissed him off that everyone wanted to remind him of that, which he was perfectly aware of, and disregarded the fact that she was  _ upset _ and  _ vulnerable _ . He may have acted too quickly, and too rash, but he did so to protect her. Surely there had to be a middle ground.

“Jaime, what are you doing?” Tyrion asked out of the blue, simply.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” At last, he allowed himself to look at his brother, and what he found there was understanding. That spurred him to admit something he had not yet admitted to himself. “It’s just, I forget myself when she’s around.” Candid, honest, Jaime looked to Tyrion for some sort of explanation.

But for the first time in his life, Jaime sought answers Tyrion did not have.

“Careful, Jaime,” Tyrion said, and Jaime realized he sounded worried. “She’s getting to you. You don’t want to go there.”

But he did.  _ There _ was exactly the place he wanted to go, the place he needed to be. Sometimes he thought he could not breathe unless he went  _ there _ . His whole life depended on  _ there _ . Nothing else mattered, but  _ there _ , the place where she was.

Suddenly, the light was switched on in one of the rooms on the first floor. Jaime looked at it, deep in thought. It called out to him, and he rose to his feet.

“Jaime,” Tyrion warned. “Leave her be.”

Jaime wasn’t listening, his feet were already carrying him across the lawn.

“You’ll regret this,” Tyrion’s voice sounded distant.

He walked inside the house, enveloped in darkness and silence. The only noise he could hear was the faint, distant, faulty sink and its rogue drop.  _ Tick. Tick. Tick _ . A rhythm. And with every tick he went up one step, and another, and another. Tick. Tick. Tick. He saw the light coming from the very last room, a sliver of orange through the barely open door. Left foot, right foot, one ahead of the other.

His ears began to register a sound. He wondered whether it had been there all this time, if his brain had just shut it out until it was impossible to pretend it wasn’t happening. Another step, and another. The closer he got, the louder that noise became. He recognized it, he’d heard it so many times, yet never like this – never  _ her _ . Her panting, her moaning. The beast in his stomach lifted its head and growled.

He could see inside the room now. That had been Tywin’s room when he was still alive, and the children hadn’t been allowed inside for a long time. All the walls were covered in shelves, all the shelves were filled with books. The red lamp on his late father’s desk cast a glow into the room.

He pressed his palm onto the door, gently, and it opened without a sound. That was when he saw her.

Beautiful, and dishevelled, and wild, and  _ not his _ , her back against his father’s books, entangled in an embrace that left little to the imagination. One long leg, alabaster skin, tight around the hip of a man whose back Jaime recognized immediately. There was no pleasure on her face, just a ferocious need to claim something as hers, to claim worship and adoration. Addam was grunting in her neck, as he thrust inside her roughly, with no composure. Jaime could see his friend’s fingers digging into her thighs, his ass clenching every time he drove inside her. She was naked and glorious. Jaime thought he had never seen a creature more admirable than her; most people lost their grace during sex, but not her. She maintained every inch of it.

And then she looked at him.

Jaime didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He held her stare, on the threshold, sweaty palms and head spinning. As did she, fingers digging in Addam’s back, lips plump and red and  _ is she smirking? _ Their eyes locked and refused to let go; Addam didn’t know and, Jaime wagered, Addam probably wouldn’t have cared because judging by his low moans he was close,  _ very close. _

All Jaime could focus on was the two green pools looking back at him. She did not blink, not once. Addam pounded, and her expression began to adjust.  The thin line between her eyebrows was a promise that something had changed, and Jaime didn’t know what it was but… suddenly, she enjoyed it. Suddenly it did not appear to be a chore, and suddenly she moaned.

Briefly, Jaime wondered if he had died.

A chill, and he swallowed. But still he did not avert his eyes and, most importantly, neither did Cersei. Addam kept thrusting, and Cersei kept looking at him, at Jaime.  _ I’m her brother _ . He could not shake the feeling that something was happening between them, in that moment. They were feet away, yet he could feel the warmth of her skin underneath his fingers, and the smell of her filled his nostrils.

_ Is she going to - _

Her eyes snapped closed, and Jaime watched in awe as she threw her head back and arched her back into Addam’s chest. He knew what an orgasm looked like, both real and fake. But what he witnessed that night was different. As she shook in Addam’s arms, he wondered what it would be like to hold her when she trembled like that. In between sharp intakes, she managed to look at him once more, a smile playing on her lips, mischievous.

Addam sped up, and soon enough he pulled out and spilled in his own hand. Jaime thought that was his cue to leave, sparing his friend the embarrassment. He retired into the shadow, Cersei’s eyes following him until she could no longer see him. Back into the darkness, he felt shielded. His bedroom had never seemed farther away. His feet weighed like bricks, and his chest was heaving.

_ You don’t want to go there _ , Tyrion’s voice.

Too late.

He had just taken permanent residence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> Jaime turned to look at the person who had spoken. He was sitting not far away, watching him with deep brown eyes, a grin on his face. His complexion was darker, and his accent wasn’t Spanish. Jaime had the feeling he had seen the man somewhere. He was not that much younger than him or Cersei. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
> 
> “Yeah, you do,” the man said, flashing his pearly white teeth. “Oberyn Martell.”


	9. tenerife pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they see the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sweet cannolis! I am especially glad to publish today, because it's a happy day: Lena and Nikolaj got their well-deserved Emmy nods and celebrations are in order! As always, thank you for your comments et all, they really really really keep me going. And Ashley: you keep me going too.  
> Without further ado, enjoy the chapter!

Jaime pushed the white Borsalino on his head, over his eyes. The boat swayed gently in the breeze. They had sailed around midday, when the sun was almost at its zenith. It was him, Cersei and Tyrion. Cersei was sunbathing at the bow, Jaime and Tyrion were relaxing beneath the boat awning. Tyrion was reading while Jaime tried to doze off, but the heat was unbearable.

“How does she do that?” Tyrion wondered, glancing in Cersei’s direction.

Their sister had not moved since they’d hopped on board, not even to enjoy the scenery. Jaime did not mind that; they had been avoiding each other for the past three days. Well, avoiding was a strong word, given there was only the three of them in the house. They were never alone, and when they were they didn’t speak to each other. The memory of that night had left its markings on them both.

_ Shantaram _ was a Bavaria Cruiser 51. With its sixteen meters and three large cabins, it was big enough that they should not have to share more than was strictly necessary. Joanna had chosen the name of the boat: it meant  _ peace _ . She had loved to sail.

“Have you found out who did that to her?” Tyrion continued, gesturing to his own cheekbone.

“She didn’t say,” Jaime replied, hat still covering his sight. “But I’m fairly sure it was Robert.”

Tyrion put down his book and narrowed his eyes at him. The silence stretched thin, and Jaime dropped his hat onto the bench. Tyrion was waiting for him to say something, clearly, since he was the one who’d witnessed the whole thing.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it,” Jaime said, careful to keep his voice down. The boat was big, but not  _ that  _ big. “I already sent him a warning.”

“Head of a dead horse?”

“Ha-ha.”

“Would she file for divorce?”

Jaime leaned back. He had not considered that, nor had Cersei ever mentioned that was a possibility. He couldn’t say he  _ knew _ her, yet, but something told him she was ready to withstand violence for the sake of violence if it meant she could have power in return. And to be the wife of the future Prime Minister of England certainly held some appeal to her.

“I don’t think so,” Jaime said.

The boat began to roll on its anchor, and the side that had been cast in shadow so far was now exposed to the sunlight.  _ Shantaram _ was the only boat in that natural harbour, which meant peace and tranquillity abound that afternoon. Jaime sat up straight and perched himself on the edge, leaning in. He motioned for Tyrion to lean in as well.

“She wants Lannister Ltd.,” he whispered.

He had kept it to himself so far. Then Tyrion had left, and there had been that ugly business with Cersei and Robert and he had just… not given it much thought. But thinking was all he seemed to do these days, especially when it came to Cersei.

He just could not stop thinking about her.

“Good luck with  _ that _ ,” Tyrion said, sarcastic.

“Well, not all of it,” Jaime corrected himself. “She wants… a role. Something.”

Of course, Tywin had done everything in his power to prevent his disabled son from having any sort of relevance within his company. But Cersei was right: he had not thought anyone would find out about the daughter he had concealed.

“You would need a good lawyer,” Tyrion continued.

“I was thinking… Baelish, maybe.”

“Petyr Baelish?”

A loud splash. Jaime and Tyrion both leaned over to find the spot where Cersei had been sunbathing empty. They hurriedly huddled together once more. Below, Cersei swam peacefully in the vast blue expanse that surrounded them.

“Yes, Petyr Baelish,” Jaime confirmed.

“He might get the job done, I’ll give you that but…” Tyrion trailed off.

“But what?”

Tyrion closed the book but kept a finger between the pages. “This is your legacy.“

Jaime glared. “It’s  _ our _ legacy.” Jaime was spoiled in many things, and he thought a lot of things to be his by rights. Wealth, a certain respect, some dread even. He liked to be driven around and to be served by people. He was not, however, selfish when it came to his family. If only he could have shared Tywin’s love – if it had been his to divide, he would have.

“Define  _ our _ .”

Of course, that left him speechless. Because  _ we  _ and  _ our  _ had always meant him and Tyrion. He had never actually stopped to think what Cersei’s arrival had meant for his brother. He looked at him now – even though there was no bitterness, Jaime saw the defeat. What Cersei had said back at Casterly Rock was true: all these years it had always been the two of them. Cersei was an unpredictable variable.

“Tyrion-”

The noise of water splashing alerted him to the new presence. Cersei was climbing the boarding ladder, slowly coming into view and, Jaime realized, within ear’s reach. Tyrion returned to his book, but Jaime’s eyes lingered upon her. She was wet, water dripping down her legs. Her hair was long, gathered over one shoulder, the shade of beaten gold now, as the sun reflected on the salty droplets. She rubbed her eyes and stood there, shaking some water off her hands.

Their eyes met, but it was fleeting. Jaime was the first one to look away.

 

* * *

Not long after the sun had set they docked in San Sebastiàn de la Gomera; they decided they would spend the night in the harbour, as the weather would not be favourable the following morning. Below deck, Cersei had called dibs on the largest cabin, while Tyrion and Jaime had the smallest ones. Even the smaller cabins, however, were good enough to fit three people comfortably, so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice.

Cersei did not like to take care of mundane things. After making sure she wasn’t aware, he’d watched her try and make her own bed. He wanted to laugh at how  _ bad _ she was. He’d had to learn back at military school. Cersei must have been spoiled, he thought and found himself smiling just watching her slowly give up the task.

“You need help with that?” he asked, after much reflection. He was walking right inside the lion’s den – but he was a lion, too.

She spun around, surprised by his presence, he’d snuck up on her, and she felt embarrassed. Her cheeks were reddening, something so strange for her he had to chuckle. He did not wait for an answer, but rather went to the upper corner of the mattress and flapped the fitted sheet beneath it. He did the same with the other three corners, feeling Cersei’s glare burning holes in him.

“You know, most people have… help. On boats.”

“We don’t like to have too many people here. This is just…” He was finished with the bed, so he had no excuses not to look at her anymore. “…it’s  _ our _ thing.” After all those hours in the sun, her skin had taken a darker shade. There was sweat beading at her collarbone, and even without make up she looked positively glowing. Her hair cascaded in waves, the salty water was a natural conditioner.

She noticed that he could not look away, so she did him the courtesy of looking away instead. Jaime felt helpless; there were things he wanted to do or say, but the ghost of what had happened between them was all around them. They had tried to ignore it for the past few days. Now, it was only a question of who would bring it up first.

“Tyrion booked us a table for dinner,” he said, quickly. “Can you be ready at 9 p.m.?”

“I  _ am  _ ready.”

Jaime looked at her, in her yellow tank top and white shorts. “Oh. Okay, I thought you would…”

“Cover up?”

Her voice sounded irritated. Jaime wished he would bite his tongue now and then, keep his brotherly act at bay.  _ Jealousy _ , the voice in his head whispered. “No, I meant. You always doll up. I thought you would…”

“ _ Doll up _ ?”

“You know what, never mind.” Jaime pushed past her, opting for a retreat before he made things even worse. “I’ll see you at 9.”

 

* * *

The restaurant was on a small terrace, surrounded by orange trees on all sides. The sky was a deep turquoise, not yet the black of night. The moon shimmered over the surface. Above the terrace, to light up the place, were strings of tiny lights that reminded Jaime of Christmas lights, the ones Joanna used to be good at, the ones he used to help her with.

Cersei had been on the phone for about ten minutes now, a few feet away. She was on her second cigarette, way into the orchard. The waiter had come and gone three times, asking if they were ready to order dessert.  Eventually, they ordered three lemon sherbets, assuming Cersei would want it, and if she didn’t Tyrion and Jaime would share hers. She was pacing; her interlocutor was doing most of the talking. Jaime had no idea who she was talking to, but his guts suggested Robert; it seemed no one but her husband managed that hold on her.

Another ten minutes later, they were served the sherbet and Cersei finally joined them back at the table. “Sorry about that,” she said.

“Robert?” Tyrion asked.

Cersei was surprised he had the courage to ask so bluntly. “Yes,” she admitted, pushing the sherbet away, under Jaime’s nose. “I’m full.” She had no intention of telling them anything further. Cersei looked up, now focused on the deep sky above. “It’s a shame you can’t see the sky with all these lights.”

“Never took you for the star-gazing type.”

“I’m not,” Cersei said, her eyes still on the blue sky above them. “But people say midsummer is the best time to catch falling stars.”

Jaime could see the lights reflecting in her eyes. Falling stars were for wishes. Did Cersei have a wish he couldn’t grant? Why did she need to turn to a higher power, when she had him? With his spoon halfway to his mouth, the sherbet was melting and dripping onto the tablecloth. “We should go to the beach,” he said. That got him her attention. “If you want to look at the stars, we should go to the beach.” He glanced at Tyrion who was trying to make sense of what he was saying. “No lights at night on the beach,” Jaime hurried to explain.

Tyrion and Cersei exchanged a look.

 

* * *

From afar, they had noticed the light flickering down the beach, casting an orange glow. As they got closer, they figured out what it was: a huge fire some few feet away from the shore. Music was blasting from the speakers someone had brought along. There were dozens of people, some were sitting around the fire, while some others were standing around in small groups, passing bottles and what smelled like weed.

“I’m too old for this,” Jaime told himself.

“I’m not,” Tyrion said, glancing up at the heavens with gratitude. He all but threw himself into the crowd and disappeared shortly after, while Jaime and Cersei remained unsure.

The sudden warmth around his hand made his heart skip a beat. Cersei’s hand had slipped in his, and she was holding it, squeezing it. She took a few steps forward, “Come on,” she said, nodding towards the crowd. “I’m not  _ that _ old, and we’re the same age.” Jaime sighed and followed her.

Jaime focused on the music. The lyrics were in Spanish, so he could not make out what they were saying. The beat was slow and relentless. Cersei’s toes disappeared rhythmically under the sand as she walked. She had painted them the prettiest light blue. Her hair danced on her back, the blonde mixing with the bright yellow of her top. She turned briefly, smiled at him, and Jaime was dumbstruck at how beautiful she looked, the orange glow playing on her golden skin making her a creature of perfection.

“Policía?”

A young man had blocked them, hands on his hips, scrutinizing. Jaime looked him up and down, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. He was sickly thin, with long hair and an even longer beard.

“Pardon me?” Cersei sounded mildly inconvenienced that someone like him would  _ presume _ to speak to her.

“Are you cop?” The other had spoken with a thick accent, only this time they understood what he meant.

“Do I look like a cop?” Jaime asked, partially offended.

“You must say if you are cop.”

“Dude, we’re not the police.” Jaime pulled at Cersei’s hand, trying to get them out of the awkward situation, but the other one followed them, even went as far as to place a hand on Cersei’s shoulder to make her turn around. She looked surprised that he’d had the gall to do that.

“Bienvenida,” he said, pulling a thin rolled cigarette from his green Hawaiian shirt. He offered it to Cersei, with a charming smile. Suddenly he did not look so sickly anymore, and Jaime tightened his grip on Cersei’s hand.

“Muchas gracias,” she replied, accepting the gift. Upon closer observation, Jaime realized it was a joint.

As they made their way towards the fire, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder why it seemed people gravitated towards his sister. No matter where they were, she was the sun, and everyone around her was just naturally drawn to her, circling endless orbits in hopes of one day reaching her, touching her.  _ Icarus flew too close to the Sun, and died for it _ . Even in the dark of night, she shined brighter than any star.

“Didn’t your father teach you the lesson about candies and strangers?” Jaime asked, as they took their place by the campfire.

“My  _ father _ gave me up,” she said, looking him dead in the eyes.

Jaime paused. “You just had to make it awkward, didn’t you?”

Cersei began to laugh. “Yeah.” He laughed with her.

She lit up the joint and took a drag. Jaime watched the smoke leave her lips in a thin line, mesmerized. They were so close to the fire he could feel it scalding his face, his eyes watering from the heat. He took a drag after her. Some ten minutes later he was welcoming the feeling of relaxation, deep in conversation with someone on his right that had not introduced himself; he wasn’t making sense, talking about a hollow Earth and a special lizard élite that supposedly lived inside the planet, unbeknownst to the majority. Jaime was intrigued, or maybe he was just half stoned already. Where had Cersei gone?

He turned to the girl who was now sitting where Cersei had been. “Did you see the woman who was sitting here?” he asked, but she did not seem to understand a word he was saying.

“She wanted to dip her feet in the water,” came the drawl from someone.

Jaime turned to look at the person who had spoken. He was sitting not far away, watching him with deep brown eyes, a grin on his face. His complexion was darker, and his accent wasn’t Spanish. Jaime had the feeling he had seen the man somewhere. He was not that much younger than him or Cersei. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Yeah, you do,” the man said, flashing his pearly white teeth. “Oberyn Martell.”

“Ah, fuck,” Jaime whispered, his head dropping. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble.” Jaime stood up, decided to go find Cersei, but Oberyn was looking at him with a certain determination. “What?”

“Nothing!” Oberyn was clearly having the time of his life, enjoying the fact he could get under his skin just by existing.

Jaime knew what Oberyn wanted, and he knew trouble followed him wherever he went. He was a hot-headed, stubborn mess. They had crossed paths in the past, when they were very young. Jaime was sixteen, and Tywin had told him to consider getting acquainted with Elia, the young Martell heiress and Oberyn’s sister. But that had been when the Targaryens and the Martells had been business partners, before the falling out caused by Aerys’ paranoia. Jaime and Elia had gone out a couple times, but the girl was fierce and would not let Jaime get away with his  _ rich boy ways _ . It hadn’t lasted long.

“I’m impressed, though,” Oberyn said. “I’ve been following the shenanigans.  _ A secret sister _ . I suppose that’s one hell of a way to distract the people from the fact your family is jumping on the bandwagon.”

Jaime looked down on him, and a smirk curved his lips. “Some of us know how to stay afloat.”

Oberyn nodded, lifted a red paper cup in a mocking toast. “Some of us do.”

“Where have you been?” Jaime found himself asking, weirdly drawn to the charms of the other man. Oberyn was smart, if not much else, and cunning. Cruel and ruthless. Jaime thought he would like Cersei, they were more similar than they knew. Perhaps, if Tywin had not given Cersei up, Jaime never would have had to date Elia Martell. Cersei and Oberyn Martell? Now that was a match destined to crash and burn. It made his stomach turn.

“Here and there. India mostly. My brother Doran is not very good with business, is he?” Oberyn stood up as well, motioned for Jaime to follow him away from the crowd. “Come, I know where she is. I sent her there myself.”

They withdrew from the crowd, walked along the sandy beach, water lapping at the soles of their shoes.

“How’s  _ your _ sister?”

“Recovering.”

Jaime shot him a careful look. Of course. Rhaegar’s death had been all over the news. It had only happened the year before. Three shots in the chest, bled on his own doorstep. People had wondered what it had been about: mostly, people had hated Aerys. But others suggested it was more than just that, that he had taken a liking to a certain young girl he should not have looked at, and angered powerful people. Still, his wife Elia Martell had opened the door to a dying husband and cradled his bleeding body until they’d come to take him away.

“He’s dead, she’s alive,” Oberyn continued, cold. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Jaime agreed. “He wasn’t like his father though, was he?”

“You would know.”

And there it was. The ghost of his past mistakes, thrown in his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.” They halted. There was a small inlet, hidden from sight. It was impossible to find it unless you meant to reach it. “You’ll find her there. She wanted peace and quiet.” With one last, knowing look Oberyn turned around and began to walk away.

“Martell?” Jaime called out to him. “If you’re ever back in London… Give me a call. I think we can work together.”

Oberyn lifted a hand and kept walking, without answering. Jaime watched him leave until he was back by the fire; then he turned to the cove behind him and took a deep breath.

He saw her immediately, sitting by the shore. She’d discarded her clothes now clad in nothing but her underwear, water lapping at her legs. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said as soon as she was within ear’s reach. She didn’t divert her eyes from the water. “Especially not when you’re half naked.”

“What’s the difference between this and a bikini?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

Jaime had to give it to her: she had a way of stating uncomfortable truths. “Point made,” he gave in. “Why did you leave?”

“I needed to think.”

She was high, clearly, her pupils were dilated. Jaime kicked off his shoes next to her clothes, where the tide wouldn’t reach them. Then he too stood by the shore, watching his feet sink further beneath the sand with every new wave. She was but a shadow when she surpassed him and walked into the water to scrub her legs clean of the sand. In the moonlight, she looked like a goddess. His feet moved of his own volition, kicking the sand that tried to keep them still. He followed her into the water, wetting the hem of his cargo pants.

The moment she saw him move she became still instead, watching him enter her perimeter, eyes wide, like a doe staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“You’re too trusting, you know?” he said. His head was dizzy, and he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Oberyn Martell is a snake.” He could  _ hear _ his voice, like properly  _ hear it _ . Like an out-of-body experience. He splashed some cold water on his face, and it trickled down onto his shirt. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

When he looked at her, the innocence was gone. Perhaps he had only imagined it, because he could not think of someone less innocent than her. The way she was looking at him, like she knew  _ exactly  _ what she was doing, and the effect it would have on him.

“Who can I trust, Jaime?”

Between them was but the distance of one step, now. If one of them were to step forward their bodies would touch and Jaime was sure they would combust.

“Me,” he breathed. Cersei smiled and looked down. “You can trust me.”

“I do,” she barely let him finish the sentence. “I trust you, Jaime.” She bent to touch the water, to wash her hands, her forearms. When she spoke next, it was with her eyes cast downwards: “Why didn’t you leave? That night. You… you could have left.”

At least she was doing him the courtesy of looking away. He swallowed, considered just leaving in hopes they could keep pretending. But one way or another, it would catch up with them again, and the only way to move on was to face the obstacle.

It didn’t make it any easier to find an answer to her question, and the silence dragged on.

Cersei took that as a void, and she decided to fill it. “I keep replaying it in my head over and over. I can’t stop thinking about it.” She was looking at him now. “Jaime, what-”

“I don’t know.” Hadn’t she offered that same explanation once before? There was so much they did not know, so much they just did not understand yet. “I don’t know why I didn’t leave. I should have, I’m sorry-”

“It felt good.”

The faint music had changed back at the beach, switched to electro. Jaime’s heart was thumping in his chest, to the beat. “Then Addam is better than I give him credit for.” With that, he began to walk back to shore. “You’ll catch a cold, let’s go.”

“It wasn’t because of Addam.” Jaime stopped, his eyes snapped shut. She was determined to move Earth, to change the course of time, to turn reality upside down. “You know that wasn’t because of Addam.” He did not want to look at her now, because if he did he knew he would make a mistake.

“Let’s go,” he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> July 18th, her thirty-ninth birthday. One year before the big one. Yet time had stopped ever since she’d known him.
> 
> It was his birthday as well. She realized that was something she had not thought about ever since their return, one week earlier. Tenerife had changed everything.


	10. growing pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which he says it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello everyone! Surprising, I know, but this Author's note won't be completely useless. There are two things I want to talk to you about. The first one is more of a PSA, as in the next update (July 30th) will be the last update before a brief Summer hiatus. I will be on holyday until August 26th, hence I won't be updating until the 27th - but don't worry, I will not be one of those who says that and never comes back. Plus, most of you know where to find me, so that would be hard hehe. The second order of business is... more of a request. When I started Perihelion I did so with no clear exit strategy, or end. It is, as a matter of fact, a story that could very easily go on for quite a long time, and I'd love to do just that. What I ask of you is: would you like it to be a single story, or would you like me to make this a series? Not much would change, but I would of course have to start thinking of possible new storylines to keep things interesting for a series. Let me know what you guys think, can't wait to hear from you!  
> As always, thank you so much for following the story and engaging with the material and being just... the best readers. And Ashley: what is a Fran without an Ashley?  
> Enjoy!   
> f.

The light teal of her bedroom ceiling in Storm’s End had never been more hideous, it hurt her eyes. She remembered picking that colour when she was twenty-three years old and thinking to herself,  _ I’ll wake up to this for the rest of my life. _ She had been married for twelve days. The light teal had seemed a bold choice, now she wished she’d picked something more vivid that would help her feel… something. Everything, about that house, reminded her that she was dying by the minute.

July 18th, her thirty-ninth birthday. One year before the big one. Yet time had stopped ever since she’d met him.

It was his birthday as well. She realized that was something she had not thought about ever since their return, one week earlier. Tenerife had changed everything.

They had not spoken again, in London. Things were tense, they had said and done and seen too many things to ever be able to go back. Still, she missed him; missed the warmth that came with his embraces, missed the way he looked at her like she was perfect. Robert didn’t help, in that sense. The very few times they were together he looked at her with such disdain – he never touched her, but he rued her for everything: for telling her brother about his blows, for denouncing him and exposing him to someone who could actually shield her.

Robert hated that she wasn’t vulnerable anymore, that he couldn’t use and abuse her and remain unpunished. There would be consequences from now on. The way he saw it, she thought, he’d lost his favourite toy.

She went downstairs around noon, still in her nightgown, and the help smiled profusely, wishing her a happy birthday. She waved her hands, and “Please, don’t,” without attempting at politeness. Cersei hated her birthday, hated growing old and being reminded of it. She hated the thin lines that had begun to appear, unwelcomed, and the white hair that she knew hid in her golden mane.

“Mrs Baratheon.” Cersei turned and saw one of Robert’s men standing in the doorway, holding the biggest bouquet she had ever seen, and a bottle of wine with a red ribbon on it. Red roses. “This came for you,” he explained, and handed it to her. 

Cersei counted them: thirty-nine. There was a note, hidden in the foliage.  

_ Drink up, you’re old! –Tyrion _

What was that, in the pit of her stomach? Disappointment? Sadness? Had she truly thought the roses would be from Jaime, instead? And why did it let her down this much that it was not him? Cersei glanced at the wine, then handed it to one of the maids. “Pour me a glass of this.” The young girl hesitated, her eyes fleeting to the grandfather clock nearby. “Did I stutter?” Cersei pressed on, and the girl scurried off.

About ten minutes later she was nursing the glass of wine, sitting in Robert’s study, deep in thought. There had been a lot of that recently, just sitting around and thinking, reconsidering the things that had happened in Tenerife, and before that as well. There were considerations to be made. 

Fact: Jaime Lannister was her brother. Biologically, legally, morally. 

Fact: Jaime Lannister loved her – like any brother would.

Fact: Jaime Lannister was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

Fact: Jaime Lannister was the part of her she did not know was missing.

Cersei looked down into her glass. 

Problem: she wanted to fuck Jaime Lannister. 

She downed the whole of the wine in one gulp. 

Her mind went back to her night with Addam. The boy had been eager to please, and his cock did not lack substance, nor was he half a bad lover. Perhaps he was anxious, pressured to perform; Cersei knew he’d wanted her ever since their Oxford days. When it had happened at last, it hadn’t made her feel anything. Not until Jaime had walked in. Cersei had given up on the concept of orgasm during sex, consigning it to solo sessions only. No man had ever managed the task her own fingers were so used to performing. But Jaime…

Jaime had walked in and with his presence alone he had pinned her to that wall and brought her somewhere she had never been before. As Addam fucked her, and her eyes had locked with Jaime’s, it had been easy to change up the scenario. To think about him doing the same, his hands where Addam’s were, his mouth where Addam’s was, his cock where Addam’s was. Her body, her mind had done the rest.

Cersei could not stop thinking about it. As she poured a second glass, she found herself mulling it over in her head once again, becoming flustered. And she might have needed to take care of it if she hadn’t been interrupted by the slamming of the entrance door, and Robert’s heavy footsteps down the corridor.

“Up at last?” he asked, waltzing in. He was wearing a fitted black suit, a bit tight on the shoulders. He wasn’t that bad-looking, not that morning. She could almost remember the man she had married. He looked at the open bottle and the glass in her hand. “Partying already, I see.” He approached, kissed her cheek. “Happy birthday.” Her skin crawled. With each passing day, it was harder and harder to stand the man before her, his hands on her, his breath, his voice, the smell of his cologne. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day?” he asked, innocently. He was a functioning alcoholic, which substantially meant he drank enough but hid it well.

“Tyrion thinks I don’t drink enough, apparently,” she explained, showing him the note from her brother. Robert looked at it and laughed, giving it back. “Robert, do I really have to do this-”

“Don’t start, Cersei,” Robert went behind his desk and sat down, pulling up a folder from somewhere. Cersei managed reading the label before he could put it down and cover it: it read  _ Aerys _ . What did Robert want with Aerys Targaryen? The old man had been dead for the best part of the last ten years now. “You know it’s not about your birthday as much as it is politics,” he said easily. “It’s about establishing connections. Speaking of, have you told your brothers?”

Cersei tucked her legs underneath her, and rested her head against her hand. “Not yet… I mean, it’s Jaime’s birthday as well, he probably has better plans than sitting around with your boring band of bickering buffoons.”

Robert linked his hands over the folder, watched her. “Alliteration, nice.” Cersei narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he had just learned what alliteration was. “If I remember correctly, you went behind my back with the whole Secretary affair. Tyrion better be there, the whole cabinet is going to be there.” Cersei wanted to spite him, to remind him he wasn’t the Prime Minister yet therefore he did not have a cabinet: all he had was a group of belligerent idiots, and now one of her brothers as well. “As for Jaime, I honestly could not care less where he is.”

Cersei tilted her head, wishing she cared as little as he did. “I’ll talk to them,” she said finally. She could taste the wine on her lips.

“You can go,” he said, looking down and opening the folder in front of him. As a second thought, he looked up and raised an eyebrow. His eyes trailed down her body, to the spot where her nightgown left her thighs bare. “Unless you’re here for something else.”

Cersei snorted, picked up the bottle and stood up. “Don’t embarrass yourself.” She headed for the door, but could feel him seething behind her. “I got you a gift, you know?” he said before she could open the door.

With her hand on the doorknob, she glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sure you did, Robert.”

 

* * *

She had reserved a table for three at the Seven Park Place restaurant in Mayfair. The place was tastefully decorated, golden Asian-fusion influences everywhere she looked. She had arrived first, asked their table on the sideways to ensure more privacy. Outside, by the door, were two of Robert’s men. She had ordered a flute of champagne while she waited, and she was almost done with it when she saw Tyrion making his way towards the table.

“You’re late,” she said, dry.

“Traffic was awful,” he apologized, kissing her cheek and sitting down.

She pursed her lips together, attempted at feigning indifference. “Jaime…?”

Tyrion sighed, bit his bottom lip and shook his head. “He won’t be joining us today,” he said, and he looked very uncomfortable as he did. 

Desperate to keep her hands busy, she attempted to fix the napkin on her plate even though it needed no fixing. She nodded, to him and herself, and swallowed the bitterness. “I would have liked to wish him a happy birthday.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“I tried,” Cersei drawled, then continued through gritted teeth. “He won’t pick up.”

Tyrion picked up the menu, and sent her one last look over the edge before he disappeared behind it completely, a sign that he had no intention of having that conversation with her. “I know William,” he added then, looking around. “He’s the chef here.” Cersei looked down at the fists in her lap. She felt angry beyond words that Jaime would pull a stunt like that, and on her birthday nonetheless. “So, you wanted to see me?”

Cersei sighed and decided to push Jaime aside for the time being. Perhaps she’d worry about him later, or never. “Robert’s throwing a… birthday dinner.” Her words were coated in venom. “He’s invited some friends over, and insists you should be there.” Tyrion fell silent, looked at her and Cersei was sure he was looking at her soul. “What?”

“It’s an odd request,” Tyrion said, putting down the menu. “It is Jaime’s birthday as well. Is he invited?”

“Of course he is, but… as you can see, he doesn’t seem interested.” It was hard not to show resentment. “Robert doesn’t care for Jaime. You, on the other hand? He was adamant you should be there.”

“Oh, I see now. So it’s not about your birthday at all.”

Cersei lifted a hand to call the waiter and cut the conversation short. “Another flute,” she said, when the boy was within ear’s reach. “And…?”

“A Bloody Mary will be fine,” Tyrion told the boy, who left for the bar. Tyrion leaned back into the padded bench and shook his head. “You deserve better, you know? You could divorce him. I know the best divorce lawyer in town.”

“How do you know what I deserve?” Cersei asked, emptying the flute. “You don’t know me.”

“True. But surely anyone deserves better than that, love.”

It felt oddly patronizing, and Cersei wasn’t sure she liked it. There was a difference in how Jaime and Tyrion treated her, clear as day. Tyrion treated her like a child sometimes, even though she was older than him. Not to mention, there was a coldness to him still, a calculated lucid detachment. Like he expected her to draw fangs. Jaime was the opposite: when she thought about him she thought of a scalding light, a vivacious jealousy, a terrible love.

Cersei straightened her back and cleared her throat, head tilted to the side as she tried to assess the damage his words had done.  _ Divorce _ . Of course she had thought about it, she had thought about it the first time he’d laid hands on her. Back then Roger Reyne had still been alive, but she had only told Ellyn, her older sister.  _ Hit back, _ her sister had said, but never had she mentioned she should leave him. No, the union with the Baratheon family was too good to give up.

“Are you coming or not?” Cersei asked, changing the subject back to neutral territory.

“I’ll have to speak to Jaime.” 

The waiter arrived with the drinks they had ordered, put them down one by one and left with a small bow of his head. Cersei barely touched the stem of her glass, offered him a small smile and nodded. 

“You know,” Tyrion began after a generous sip of his Blood Mary. “He won’t speak to me either. I mean we live together but it’s like living with a ghost, you know?” That made her look up, and she saw a pain in her brother’s eyes. Perhaps it was a different pain – but it was pain all the same. “I am… positively terrified to ask this, Cersei, but I have to. Did something happen?”

Cersei swallowed, watched the tiny bubbles come up to the surface in her glass. “We… had an argument, that’s all.” She smiled politely, fake. “Oh, look, there’s William! Let’s order, I’m famished.” Tyrion’s concerned stare remained on her for a while longer, but for the rest of their lunch neither mentioned Jaime again.

 

* * *

Robert’s birthday present rested on her neckline, a heavy golden necklace with beautiful emerald drops. Cersei admired the glimmer in the reflection, holding her hair up to decide whether it would look better with a ponytail or down in curls. She’d worn a red dress, tight in the right places, with an asymmetric décolletage that bared her right shoulder.

“It looks beautiful.”

Cersei spun around to see her husband entering her bedroom. “And how do  _ I _ look?”

Robert looked her over, up and down. “I think you know how you look.” Cersei smirked and returned her undivided attention to the full length mirror. Barefooted, she stood quite shorter than him, and it was only more evident when he came up behind her in his grey tuxedo, white shirt and lucid black shoes. He slid his hands up her arms and halted at her shoulders, where his fingers toyed with the emeralds. Cersei let her hair down, and met his hungry eyes in the mirror. “You should leave it down. It makes you look human,” he said at last.

Cersei tensed up. He was grinning now, his face half hidden in her hair while he sniffed her.  _ You will not smell fear. _ “Is that what your friends are supposed to see me as?” she asked. “Human? Will that make them more… ah, sympathetic towards you?”

Robert chuckled and kissed her temple. “I don’t need them sympathetic. I need them to wish they could fuck you.”

A backhanded compliment, Cersei guessed. Robert walked away and she grabbed the brush. “Marcia?” she called out, and soon enough a short woman appeared in the doorway. “I need you to brush my hair, and do the tightest, highest hairdo you’ve ever done.”

 

* * *

There was an atmosphere of solemnity in the big saloon of Storm’s End. Robert and Eddard had disappeared in her husband’s study some time before, leaving her to play the gracious host to people she wanted to kick outside her home. Robert’s youngest brother had introduced them to his young new lover, a boy, the youngest son of Mace Tyrell. The middle Baratheon brother was present as well, with his horse-faced, boring wife. Thankfully Selyse was too busy catching up with Catelyn Tully to bother Cersei. Varys was there, of course, as he always was, lurking about and listening in on most conversations – she made a mental note of asking him, later.

The most surprising visitor had been Petyr Baelish, whom Cersei did not remember being part of Robert’s inner circle. Baelish was a dangerous, sleazy individual, a man of many secrets – too many. Why was he there and what did he know?

The doorbell rang just as Cersei was about to burst in Robert’s study and drag him back out to entertain his guests. Cersei waited for the help to escort the guests that had just arrived, and she wore a small smile because she knew who it would be. But when Marcia returned, she was accompanied by Tyrion. Alone. Cersei’s lips opened just enough to exhale.

The other guests had fallen silent the moment Tyrion had waltzed in. Stannis especially was particularly red in the face, grinding his teeth. Cersei had heard from Robert that he was supposed to occupy the role she had arbitrarily assigned to her own brother. 

“Why the long faces,” Tyrion tried to joke, handing his coat away. “Is this any proper way to celebrate this beautiful lady?” He approached her, kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, “I tried. He wouldn’t budge.”

“You didn’t stay with him?”

“We got in a fight. He told me to fuck off.”

Stannis Baratheon stood up from his armchair by the fireplace, resisting his wife’s attempt to hold him back. “I won’t just stand idly by,” he started off addressing the others, everyone except for Cersei and Tyrion. “How can you all just accept this?”

Renly Baratheon chuckled, lifted a glass his way. “You act as if we have a choice.”

Varys cleared his throat. “If I may, I think Mr. Lannister can only contribute positively to Robert’s campaign.”

“If I didn’t know you don’t have any I’d say she has got you by the balls,” Stannis growled, pointing a finger at Cersei.

“Careful Stannis,” Tyrion warned.

The fact that Tyrion had dared addressing him was outrageous to Stannis. Cersei watched the exchange without saying a word; men and their toys, the idea amused her infinitely. And to know Stannis was so afraid of her, it made her feel a drop of triumph. She sneered, green eyes sparkling in the gentle light that came from the fireplace.

“I don’t like you, Tyrion,” Stannis said. “I don’t like your brother. I didn’t like your father. And I most definitely do not like her.” Cersei chuckled to herself, which only inflamed him further. “My brother doesn’t see what you are. I do.”

“And what am I, Stannis?” Cersei said at last, all eyes on them now.

“You do not love my brother. You don’t love anyone. I don’t think you’re even capable of that,” Stannis’ voice was grave, like he was sentencing her to death.

Cersei knew Stannis well enough to know it wasn’t the job he had lost that bothered him – in fact, Robert had lost no time and given him another of almost equal importance. No, what Stannis hated was the fact she did not play fair. He was rigorous, stern. Cersei represented everything he hated: temptation, sin, and the embodiment of his brother’s weakness.

“What’s going on?” came Robert’s thunderous voice from the doorway. Behind him, Eddard Stark looked from Cersei to Stannis, then back to Cersei. “Not you two again.”

“Robert, I wish to speak to you about this… ridiculous affair.”

Eddard and Robert exchanged a look, then her husband took a step forward into the room. “Not now. There’s something we need to discuss first.” Cersei had never seen Robert so tense, so she stood up slowly. Tyrion kept his position by her side, as everyone else walked closer. Robert looked around, pointedly, at each and every one of his guests. “Jon Arryn is stepping down.”

A clamour, suddenly. “What!” “Why?” “What the fuck?” “What is going on?” “What does that mean?”

Cersei remained silent for the longest while. She knew what that meant. It meant Robert had spoken to the Party. It meant they had agreed he would be the successor. Elections would be held in due time, but no one had any doubts he would win those as well. He would become Prime Minister. She would become…

“Congratulations,” Tyrion grabbed her hand and pulled at it lightly, dragging her from her trance. While everyone else was congratulating Robert, Tyrion seemed more interested in what she had to say. Eventually Robert appeared before her and planted a kiss on her lips. For a moment all hatred was forgiven, and everyone felt like celebrating. She was quite stunned at how fast this was happening, but the euphoria was getting to her. 

It had all been worth it.

 

* * *

The green dress lay discarded by her bed. In her nightgown, Cersei looked once more at the ceiling. The same horrid light teal. She decided she would repaint the room. What for, though, when she would be moving to Downing Street soon enough. The guests had left, Robert had left the house to go out with Stannis and celebrate. Even Tyrion had been giddy, eager to start the new adventure.

Her phone rang, there, on her nightstand, as she was applying moisturizer to her neck. And then, just as she was thinking she could have it all…

“I hear congratulations are in order.” His voice. His  _ stupid _ voice. “Tyrion told me you’re going to be the wife of the Prime Minister. That’s awfully fancy.”

Cersei felt the blood rising to her cheeks. “You do like cutting it awfully close.”

“Go to the window.”

Cersei stood up and did as he told her to. She pushed aside the curtain and sure enough, just outside the gate, she saw a black car with tinted windows. The backseat window rolled down and she saw him lift a hand and wave. “11.58 pm… Happy birthday.”

“You’re an asshole,” She heard the deep sigh on the other end, saw him sink into the leather seat. He looked dishevelled, his bowtie crooked, his hair messy. “Are you drunk?”

“Not enough.”

“Robert isn’t here,” she said. “Come in.”

“I can’t,” he drawled.

“Why?”

“You know why, Cers.” She leaned against the window frame, her phone pressed to her ear like it was a lifeline. They were silent, but breathing hard. She blessed him for being stronger than she was. He continued. “I… can’t help it. I’ve read about it. Children are separated for whatever reason and then… they see each other when they’re adults and… It happens, sometimes.” His voice was strangely clear for someone as drunk as he was. The worst thing was, he was making sense.

“ _ What _ happens, Jaime?”

She needed him to say it.

He groaned. She couldn’t really make out his face from that distance, but she knew his eyes were closed, she could almost picture him biting his bottom lip in the attempt not to spill too much of his deepest secrets.

Or perhaps she was just projecting.

“I want to touch you, all the time. I want to touch your legs, your stomach, your back... I want to touch your face, remember every little crevice of you.” His voice had dropped an octave. “I want to know what it’s like to be held by you like you held  _ him _ . That’s why I didn’t leave, that night.”

Slowly, her fingers had crept down her own thigh, begun bunching up the silk of her nightgown until her leg was bare. The material sliding up her skin tickled her.

Could he see her?

“I think about what it would be like every night.”  _ Me too. _ “I think about what it would be like to know what you taste like. Not just kissing you. Really the taste of you. I wish I could bury my face between your legs.”

“Jaime…” 

“I know it’s wrong,” Her hand disappeared between her legs, fingers brushing where the cotton was wet. Jaime’s voice lulled her as she drew small circular patterns with her index, distracted. “I have tried fucking other women, but they all become you after a while. I’ve fucked you a thousand times in my head. Over and over.”

Cersei stepped away from the window and leaned against the wall for support. She pushed the cotton aside and found her clit throbbing and wanting. She knew he could hear her pant through the phone, but she had no intention of stopping.

“Your moaning won’t leave my ears. I hear it every waking moment.” She moaned at  _ that _ . “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Exactly.”

What excuse would she find for this in the morning? He was drunk, but she was perfectly sober and sound of mind.  _ Not so much _ , some would disagree. But her muscles were tightening, and her fingers were coated in her own juices, making it all easier. He was breathing quite hard too, and she pictured him with his cock in his hand, eyes snapped shut trying to picture her doing the same.

Was this any less scandalous than if they’d just…

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, sharp pain suggesting she might have drawn blood. The moaning was more frequent now, the ringing in her ears growing persistent as she reached her climax. And when she finally tumbled over that edge, it was with a curse on her lips, and a whisper that sounded dreadfully like the last thing she should have said.

His name.

He gave her time to recover. There was no awkwardness between them. Cersei peeked outside, and saw Jaime looking at her window. She wasn’t sure, not from that distance, but he seemed to be smiling.

“Happy birthday, Jaime,” she whispered, spent.

Jaime chuckled into the phone and closed the call. Seconds later the black town car sped up the street and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> “I can’t be around you,” he said, at last. He was sober now, so it wasn’t as easy for him to admit to his weakness. “I thought maybe if I left it would help me clear my head.”
> 
> “Did it?” Cersei took one step towards him, the first. Jaime mirrored her, only he didn’t stop at one. He took another, and another, until he was towering her. One hand on the side of her neck, he let his thumb trace the column of her throat. His eyes avoided hers, focusing on everything else about her face. Her lips, her nose, her hair. This close, she could smell his cologne. “Did it, Jaime?” she repeated, her voice lower because he was so close he would have heard her.


	11. precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello little doves! So here we are, as I anticipated last week this is going to be the last chap before summer break! I hope to leave you somewhat eager for the rest, in order to see you back in September! :) All your comments mean the world to me and I can't say that enough. Thank you for sticking around!  
> Ashley, thank you for everything.  
> See you in September, have a great summer, have fun! And if you wanna keep in contact, feel free to follow me on twitter @ valonqars, just be sure to drop me a message saying who you are so I can follow back because I don't usually follow back strangers!  
> xoxo  
> f.

 

_ for Cait. _

 

* * *

 

Robert Baratheon became Prime Minister ad interim on August 10th and the country could not have been happier. It was clear, right away, that Robert was the right choice, as the vast majority rallied behind him. He was a wealthy man, but he had never forgotten the people, and had made it his battle cry. He had fuelled the people’s anger, redirected it towards old villains, and collected the praise and worship. Elections were announced, to be held in December, but the Party was confident.

Cersei’s life changed drastically. Suddenly people cared what she had to say. People followed her around – reporters mostly – asking her opinion on Robert’s platform and political views. After the first faux pas, in which she had not answered according to what Robert’s team deemed appropriate, she was instructed on all small things, as to never ever be caught off guard again. Her existence alone reflected on Robert Baratheon’s administration; the pressure was sky high.

Robert’s new role had also meant a significant switch in his relationship with his wife. They were forced to appear together at social gatherings much more than before. Also, they were supposed to appear in love, which required a lot of acting on both Cersei and Robert’s part. Robert was frustrated because all the attention meant it was a lot harder for him to cheat. Cersei hadn’t cheated on her husband since Addam Marbrand, in Tenerife.

Except…

Except that was not true. Addam may have been the last person she’d fucked, but her head? Oh, her fucked up head was a whole different story.

She had tried not to think about Jaime. Unknowingly, he had been helpful: the day following the birthday accident he’d jumped on a flight to Mumbai and that was the last she had heard from him. What little news she had came from Tyrion nowadays, the only one Jaime was still on speaking terms with. He was a guest of Oberyn Martell’s, apparently, which Cersei found hilarious: he’d been warning her about the Martells only few weeks prior. Now, it seemed he had changed his mind.

She was bitter, of course she was. The first few weeks she’d called him non-stop, sent hundreds of texts, left angry messages in his voicemail. He had ignored her, which had first only made her more angry. He had initiated it. He had made her feel _something_ . It was _his_ fault, and she couldn’t accept that she was the only one left facing the consequences of what they’d done. The only one left with the terrible realization that she wanted him, truly wanted him, and that she was a monster for that.

What did that mean for her? What did that make her?

So she’d gone and tried to forget him, just like he had gone and forgotten her. She dove head first into her new role, basking in the spotlight whenever she could, keeping herself occupied with all sorts of gatherings and events that might make her popular, that might make her _loved_ . But she wasn’t. It was a cold, rainy November morning when Robert’s PR team informed her the people did not _like_ her; only 16% found her _relatable_. Robert got angry that night, struck her for the first time since August. The morning after she left London for a SPA facility, but the truth was her bruises would catch the public’s eye, and they couldn’t have that.

Those were the times she missed Jaime the most. He had been a shelter during the storm, but that had been before… In hindsight, perhaps that was the source of their problem. She had relied on him too heavily, she had seen the love he was eager to give and swallowed it whole, deprived as she was. No one had ever loved her half as fiercely as Jaime had in the little time he’d been in her life. She had been thirsty when she’d met him, and he was water, pure clear water.

Now she was parched.

“You could try brunette?”

Taena’s voice brought her back to the present, back to the room, where Robert’s PR team was gathered to try and fix what was wrong with her. _Why don’t people like her? Why don’t they find her relatable? Beautiful, yes, but they don’t think she is kind. Is it because they don’t have any children? A child could be helpful, right?_ They kept talking about her like she weren’t there. Her husband had gone off to hide somewhere in the house, leaving the ordeal to Cersei; after all, he had not failed to remind her: she was the problem, not him.

“No,” Cersei replied, dry. She drew the line at changing her physical appearance. When she looked in the mirror, she wanted to be able to see herself. (See him, too.) Cersei was beginning to show signs of exhaustion. They had been at it for three hours now. “Enough,” she said then, standing up. “I don’t care if they like me.” It was beginning to feel like it as well. “They don’t have to vote for me, they have to vote for Robert. And if they don’t… well, too bad!”

Taena gasped, and the rest of the team fell silent. Cersei had mentioned the thing that should not be mentioned, the V word. Ever since the elections had been announced, in the house there was a strict rule not to mention the upcoming vote the following week. Cersei never liked rules all that much.

Her phone rang. Cersei glanced at the screen, saw Tyrion’s ID. “Leave,” she bellowed when they just stood there. “All of you!” The bunch of them hurriedly gathered their papers and polls and _reams of bullshit_ and left the room. Taena was the last one, sending her a poignant look before sliding the doors closed between them. “Please, _please_ tell me you have something that will brighten my mood.”

“He’s back.”

She must have paled, because she felt dizzy all of a sudden and she had to lean heavily on the back of a chair. “When?” Her knuckles were white, her fingernails scratching the polished wood.

“Just this morning,” Tyrion’s explanation was barely above a whisper, which suggested she probably shouldn’t be privy to this information. Had Jaime told him not to call her specifically? Did he expect he could come back to London and not see her again for the rest of his life? Could that be so easy for him?

That reminded her she was mad at him. It reminded her she should not let this affect her. “Good to know,” she said, trying to sound unfazed. Neither of them spoke for a long while; Cersei refused to talk because she would betray herself if she did, Tyrion also refused to say anything because he would not buy into her bullshit and was desperate to let her know just that. Eventually, she caved first. “What am I supposed to do? Throw him a welcome party? He left without a word.”

“Yes, and we don’t know why he did that so we should be understanding. He’s going through… stuff.”

Tyrion was the smartest man Cersei had ever known, but sometimes he could be so dense. “I’m not his therapist.”

“You’re his sister.”

Cersei wished everyone would stop reminding her of that, including Jaime. It only heightened her sense of guilt, the loss of sanity and propriety. “Tell him that,” she snapped. “I think he has forgotten.”

 

* * *

 

At some point during Jaime’s absence it had become easier to not think about him. Cersei had pinned it to the distance. After Jaime’s return things had grown uncomfortable. She couldn’t focus on her usual tasks, and her mistakes resulted in Robert’s frustration quite often. The week before she had completely forgotten about a previous social engagement and her absence had made people wonder about Robert’s commitment to the cause. Cersei could barely remember what charity it was, she did not care in the slightest.

The night before the elections’ results were due, she had dreamed about him. It had become a recurring dream, for her, one that always left her breathless and ashamed in the morning. When she was awake she could control herself, steer her thoughts away from lust and desire, control her impulses when it became too much. But when she was asleep… her mind took control of her conscience, her neurons short-circuited, sending images of his strong hands pinning her down, his mouth open to lick her nipples, his muscles taut against hers.

No, in her dreams she had no say.

Still flustered, she picked a gown for the evening. Strapless, emerald green, pleated. With every step she took, the skirts flowed like she was floating. A hairdresser came to fix her hair around 5pm, styling it in soft retro waves. A single, pear-shaped diamond rested between her breasts, looking like a crystallized tear. It took the makeup artist one full hour to be done with her face, until Cersei insisted she wanted to put on her own lipstick.

It was 8pm when the results came in. Robert Baratheon was Prime Minister, and Cersei…what was Cersei?

She did not feel any different when Robert came into her room and swept her off her feet. “We won,” he bellowed, “We won!” Cersei smiled because it was part of her role, but truly she wanted to remind him _he_ had won, she was still only 16% relatable. Everything she had done was for this moment, everything she had suffered. Yet now she had nothing more than what she had before.

That was not true, though: before, albeit shortly, she had Jaime.

 

* * *

 

The celebration was in full swing. Robert had picked Storm’s End rather than some anonymous venue because he wanted the celebration to be about _him_. Cersei had not had a say in any in it this time around. She had been paraded upon arrival, thanked profusely in his speech, kissed and hugged a lot before an adoring crowd. She had smiled so much her cheeks hurt, shaken so many hands she wanted to wash them raw. More than a few hands had lingered on her sides for too long to be innocent; more than a few eyes had tried to catch a glimpse of her cleavage.

This was supposed to be a day of triumph for her. A victory lap. It tasted as bitter as defeat.

“I didn’t believe the innocent act for one second,” came the voice behind her.

In a desperate attempt at finding some peace, Cersei had gone upstairs and was now observing the spectacle from the balcony. She didn’t need to turn around to recognize her youngest brother, but she fought the instinct to tell him she wanted to throw herself off the railings rather than stand one more minute of this.

“You seem particularly grim,” Tyrion continued, joining her on the balcony. He barely reached the railings, and Cersei had to look down to return his watchful gaze. “You’re not happy.”

“Should I be?” Cersei asked, eyes moving to the moving crowd beneath them, the twirling gowns, the flashes of colourful silks. “None of this is about me.”

“You are the wife of the Prime Minister.”

“Whatever that means,” she murmured.

“That means you are the most powerful woman in the United Kingdom,” Tyrion explained, furrowing his brow.

“I am not the Queen.”

“That’s right. You have more power than her.” Tyrion’s words were hitting some place within her, prodding her ego. “The man behind the scenes is always more powerful than the one on stage. And the woman?” He paused, placed a hand over hers. “Truly terrifying.”

They exchanged a look. Both of them were outcasts, in a sense. Tyrion, a dwarf. Cersei, a woman. What a pair they made. And she was about to say just that, if only the crowd had not parted in that instant, showing the newly arrived guests. Cersei was breathing slowly, hands gripping the railing. Tyrion felt her muscles tense up under his fingertips and followed what she was looking.

Jaime had just waltzed into the venue. He looked as handsome as ever, Cersei’s mirrored reflection with his golden curls (longer than they were before he left) and sparkling green eyes. He flashed a smile at the woman by his side. A lean brunette, with a thin waist and large hips, big hazel eyes, heart-shaped lips and a pointy face. Overall, she wasn’t hard on the eyes, Cersei had to admit.

She didn’t notice Tyrion’s eyes were on _her_ , not Jaime, as if waiting for her reaction.

“I didn’t know he was coming,” she said.

“You invited him.”

“Yes, but I thought he would ignore it, like he has all my invitations for the past three months.”

They both fell silent, intent on looking at Jaime and his date. She had her arm linked with his, and Jaime was introducing her to someone Cersei did not recognize. The girl was about their age, seemingly elated to be part of such a fancy party. Cersei did not remember her from… anywhere, really.

“Melara Weatherspoon,” Tyrion said, like he’d read her thoughts. “Oberyn Martell introduced them. Her father is English, but her mother is Italian. She was an intern at Martells inc.”

Cersei was only half listening, her full attention was on Jaime and the Weatherspoon girl. Only when her fingers began to ache did she realize she’d been gripping the banister too harshly. Then, Jaime looked up. Her breathing stopped altogether, she swallowed. His smile faltered, unaware of what Melara was whispering in his ear. For the longest moment, time stopped and everything surrounding them became a blur.

It all came rushing back and Cersei took a step back, like the railing was on fire and her skin was burning. Her gown billowed behind her as she turned and left, leaving Tyrion behind. Atop the stairs, she straightened her back and picked up her skirt and went down the stairs as gracefully as she could muster. _My hands are shaking_. She had faced everything she hated today, but it hadn’t been nearly half as difficult as what she was about to do.

Jaime’s eyes hadn’t left her since he’d first seen her. In fact, Cersei was quite sure she’d seen him tighten his grip on the girl’s arm once he’d realized she was approaching. No one was paying them any mind; they had no idea what was hidden behind the plastered smiles and fake pleasantries.

“Jaime,” she greeted him. “I’m glad you came.” People were watching, blissfully unaware of the knives between their teeth.

“Sis,” he smiled, arrogant. She wanted to slap that stupid smirk off his face. “You know I couldn’t possibly let you bask in all the glory all by yourself.”

Cersei’s hands rested at her sides, and she turned to the girl, then Jaime, then the girl again. Waiting.

“I’m Melara,” the girl said when it was clear Jaime had no intention to introduce her. In fact, Cersei wasn’t sure he had as much as blinked since she’d stepped into his line of sight. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I’m sure you’ve only heard half of it,” Cersei responded, taking the girl’s hands in hers and kissing the girl’s cheeks, both. “Isn’t that how Italians do it?” Melara smiled and nodded, holding Cersei’s hands tight, sweet and _deliciously vapid_ . “You are just the sweetest, aren’t you? How on Earth did _he_ manage to steal you away?”

Melara’s eyes were sparkling with all the luxury that surrounded her, and the twins’ golden aura was the shiniest of all the riches. “He’s extremely charming,” Melara said, with a coy look.

“He is, isn’t he?” Jaime was watching the exchange, but Cersei could tell he was ready to pounce and stop her if need be. Cersei swirled one of Melara’s dark curls around her finger, gently, “I’ll leave you to the party,” and kissed her cheek again, “And welcome to the family.” Jaime was about to say something, Cersei saw his lips part. She did not want to hear whatever he had to say. “I have to find my husband now.” Jaime nodded, defeated. She turned and left, walking through the crowd; her smile faded and was replaced by something ferocious that looked like vengeance.

 

* * *

 

Steffon Baratheon had been quite a reader. His library counted more than 5,000 books, many of which were rare editions that would earn Robert quite a few pounds if he ever decided to auction them. Steffon’s library had always been her favourite room in the Baratheon mansion. She wasn’t much of a reader, but then again neither was Robert, which meant she was unlikely to find him there. Or anyone else, for that matter.

That was precisely the reason why she’d find shelter in the library around midnight, when most guests were half drunk and still had no intention of going home. Robert’s team had forbidden her to smoke in public; the books wouldn’t mind.

The tall ceiling was painted vivid green with golden leaves, delicate. _Not Robert’s style at all_ , she knew, but then again it was all he had left of his father’s; perhaps that was the reason he had decided to keep it that way. The shelves reached up to the ceiling, and one would have needed a ladder to reach the books on the top shelves.

She was walking down the mythology section, index finger sliding over the spines of many volumes, but barely touching them. Some of them were dustier than others. The cigarette dangled between her lips, making her eyes water.

She recognized the steps behind her.

“What do you want?”

“You shouldn’t smoke near books,” Jaime said. He was smiling, she didn’t have to look around to know that.

“It’s just books.”

“Tyrion would disagree.”

“Tyrion would disagree on many things, wouldn’t he?” She glanced at him, pointedly. She had no intention of mincing her words, not this time around. What had happened between them… they could keep going round in circles, or they could face it.

Jaime didn’t seem fond of the second option, as he simply leaned against the bookshelf.

Cersei picked up a book. _Medusa._ “How was India?”

“Torrid, but beautiful.”

“And Oberyn Martell?”

“We had business to discuss.”

She put the book back on the shelf. “I’m sure you did,” her eyebrows threatened to disappear beneath her hairline. “Have you given my request any thought?”

“I’m _working_ on it,” he crossed his arms, puffing his chest out, like her doubting him was offensive. “It’s not easy.”

She began to walk away, slowly, reading the titles on the shelf, the cigarette in her other hand stinking out the place. She flicked the ashes, careless on the floor. “Have you ever read the Iliad?”

“I hate classics.” Jaime was following her, taking slow, calculated steps that would maintain the distance between them. A safety measure. “Too many words. They talk, and talk…” He picked up a book as well: _Aesop._ “But they never do shit.”

Cersei turned around and continued walking backwards. “Menelaus started a war for Helen. That’s… not doing nothing.”

Jaime looked up from the beautiful leather bound edition, just in time to see Cersei’s small smirk before she turned the corner. He put the book back where he found it, upside down, anxious to follow her and find her again. The room was a maze of shelves, too similar to recognize where they’d already been.

He had to walk down a couple of corridors before he found her again. She was crouching down, the cigarette dangling between her lips while she skimmed the pages of a small, black leather book with no letters on the cover. It was a poetry book, no author.

“I want to apologize.” Jaime was not at ease, he seemed to have left the arrogance in the main saloon. Here, in that room, with her there was no room for it.

She looked up. “For what?”

“I was inappropriate.”

That made her laugh. “Does that mean you think I was inappropriate too?”

“I shouldn’t have said those things.”

 _Ah_. At last, the subject was breached. Cersei abandoned the black book on the carpet, pushed herself up and fixed the folds of her dress. “Yes,” she said, “You shouldn’t have. But you did.” She took a last drag from the cigarette, put it out against the spine of another anonymous book, hid the butt between the pages of another. “Just like you should have walked out of the room in Tenerife, but you didn’t.”

“Cersei...”

Cersei lifted a hand, silencing him. It was easy, he didn’t really know what to say anyway. She didn’t need excuses, she didn’t need apologies. What she needed was clarity once and for all, the clarity he denied her when he left without a word. She wanted him to help her figure out what was going on, and how to deal with it. And if maybe… maybe…

“I can’t be around you,” he said, at last. He was sober now, so it wasn’t as easy for him to admit to his weakness. “I thought maybe if I left it would help me clear my head.”

“Did it?” Cersei took one step towards him, the first. Jaime mirrored her, only he didn’t stop at one. He took another, and another, until he was towering her. One hand on the side of her neck, he let his thumb trace the column of her throat. His eyes avoided hers, focusing on everything else about her face. Her lips, her nose, her hair. This close, she could smell his cologne. “Did it, Jaime?” she repeated, her voice lower because he was so close he would have heard her.

He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, retreating his hand like he’d been hit by lightning. “You’re my sister.”

The loss of contact made her body tremble, made her angry. “Is that why you brought that… _filly_ into my home?” Jaime frowned at the comment. “Honestly, _brother_ , I hoped you would have higher standards,” she concluded with a cruelty she did not remember possessing.

“Rich coming from you,” he snapped back.

“My husband is the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom,” she hissed, hands balling into fists.

“Your husband is a pig who’ll screw anything with legs,” his voice was louder now, and his ears were red, a sign she’d begun to recognize: it meant he was angrier than he let show.

“At least he doesn’t want to screw his sister.”

His eyes went wide, and he did not try to talk back after that. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing stupidly. Cersei was breathing hard, the only sound in the room. He was looking at her with something she did not recognize, a darkness that did not belong to him yet, somehow, became him. He took a step forward, and she instantly took one back. But he was faster, he was stronger.

He grabbed her by the back of her head, wrapped one arm around her waist and hoisted her up, pressing her into the nearest wall. She wrapped her legs around his hips for balance, neck straining against his tight grip on her hair.

“Is this what you want?” he growled.

She looked at him, unblinking. He leaned into her, his hardening cock straining beneath the fabric of his trousers but there, solid against her core. He nudged her nose with his, lips hovering. _Yes_ , she wanted to say. Her heart was beating so fast it would burst out of her chest.

Neither of them closed their eyes when he brushed his lips against her, at first. Nor when he licked her bottom lip with the faintest touch of the tip of his tongue. And they kept their eyes open when his hand slid up down her sides and her thighs, bunching up the dress and holding her up by her ass, fingers barely grazing the lace underneath.

“I said, is this what you want?” he repeated, his lips moving over hers.

Still she did not have the courage to say it out loud. He did not wait for her to make up her mind. He wove his fingers through her hair and pulled her in, lips crashing against each other. She opened her mouth to allow him entrance, and he did not ask again. He groaned into the kiss, fingers flexing to grapple as much skin as he could, pulling her hips and her pelvis into his to gain friction.

They had tumbled over a precipice, free falling now.

She might have drowned in him, but he was breathing life into her. A life she had never thought possible, a life she had never thought might be meant for her. Vibrant, and terrible, and real. She was hanging onto him, or the idea of him, of _them_. But when she heard the metallic sound of his unbuckled pants, she pulled back.

He hesitated, but the spell was broken. Now, as they looked at each other, they were too scared. Her lips were red and swollen, hair in disarray; his clothes were all crumpled where she’d pulled and tugged at him.

Jaime let her down gently, allowing the skirt to slide down her legs. He did not let her go though. There, caged between his arms, she closed her eyes and let him rest his forehead against hers for a while, both trying to catch their breaths.

“What if there’s something wrong with us,” she murmured, defeated and vulnerable. “What if… what if we can never be normal again?”

Jaime pushed himself off the wall, turned his back on her to recollect himself and buckle up his pants shielded from her gaze. Cersei felt a pang to her stomach, at the idea that he was hiding from her. The idea that he might pull away after this, that she would not _see him again_ , it was more than she could handle. Yet, it seemed like the only solution.

She picked up her skirt and left, without looking back, vaguely registering Jaime trying to stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> Cersei put the phone in her pocket and slammed the car door shut. When she reached the main door, she found a woman she recognized waiting on the threshold. Her hair was light brown and shorter than Cersei remembered, a sharp bob cut that was shorter at the back and longer at the front. She wore straight black pants and a white blouse. It looked like she was on her way to work.
> 
> “Hi,” Cersei said, waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
> 
> Ellyn, the eldest of Roger Reyne’s daughters, was not happy to see her.


	12. rains of castamere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she goes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely peeps! Long time no see. I made you all a promise: that I would update this on August 27th. It's August 27th - although barely - where I live, and a Lannister always pays her debts. After a short-lived scare for my laptop, which the Boyfriend managed fixing, here I am with chapter 12. Holidays were fine up until the last week. I wish i could say I return to you fresh and relaxed, but the truth is my family was struck by a terrible loss just yesterday. And although we've known this was coming for a week now, it doesn't take away from the shock of losing someone you love in less than a month's time. It is harrowing, it is draining. It leaves you humbled. Which is why I have to ask you to be patient: I need a little time to heal. Some time to gather myself. It won't be long, soon enough life as it is will have to start again - work, and the hectic everyday routine will work their magic. It's unlikely I will publish a new chapter next week, but I will publish the week after. I'll be sure to harvest the grief, and put it to good use.  
> Thak you for sticking around, I will not forget it. And thank you Ashley for taking my mind off things when I need it most.

For her 30 th birthday, Robert had given her a black convertible Mercedes, which Cersei had driven three times in her life. The first time had been the day she got the keys. London and its traffic weren’t suited for fast cars, so she’d driven it all the way to Storm’s End. She wasn’t much of a driver, most of her life she’d had people driving her around – but even Cersei couldn’t deny it was a nice car and a nice gift. Back than Robert did not hate her half as much as he did now, and viceversa.

The second time around had been to go to the emergency room the night her parents died. The ride had not been half as pleasant as the first one. She could still remember the sense of oppression mixed with something new – grief. By the time she had reached the hospital, her father was dead. Her mother was comatose and would die later that night. She had not been in any condition to drive after that, she’d called a cab home, and sent someone to get the car the following morning.

The third time was after Robert’s election. She left early in the morning with nothing but her cell phone and some pounds. She had tied her hair up in a loose ponytail and, for the first time in a long time, she’d work jeans and a white t-shirt, in the attempt to keep a low profile  _ and _ because she was nowhere near her right state of mind.

Jaime called what she did  _ dolling up _ . She considered it armour.

There was so much Jaime would never understand. Because he was a man, first and foremost, and because he was… well, Jaime. A privileged, rich white boy who had never struggled for anything. Who was used to always getting what he wanted. Who never asked please because no one had ever taught him.

This time, though, it would not be that easy. The thing he wanted was well beyond his reach.

Castamere was not quite as big as Storm’s End or Casterly Rock. In fact, upon returning for the first time in ten years, Cersei realized how small it looked compared to the places she’d been, the things she’d seen. There, as she waited for the gate to open, looking at the villa, she felt like an outsider. This had been her home until she was 11, but then she had gone to boarding school. On Christmases the Reynes liked to travel; so she’d spent Christmas in Casablanca, San Francisco, Tokyo, Sydney and many more places, but never  _ home _ .

Though in all fairness she’d begun to question the same idea of  _ home _ . Why did home have to be a place? Perhaps it could be a person.

Her phone rang at the same time as the gate opened, so she ignored it. Ignored the texts that followed as well, pulling up into the driveway. She got out, leaving the keys in the ignition because no one would ever set foot in Castamere. It was a cage. A beautiful gilded cage. Before she got out, however, she grabbed her phone and glanced at the screen.

**_1 Missed Phone Call: Jaime Lannister_ **

**_3 New Texts from: Jaime Lannister_ **

_ (09.37) cersei _

_ (09.37) pick up _

_ (09.38) please _

Cersei put the phone in her pocket and slammed the car door shut. When she reached the main door, she found a woman she recognized waiting on the threshold. Her hair was light brown and shorter than Cersei remembered, a sharp bob cut that was shorter at the back and longer at the front. She wore straight black pants and a white blouse. It looked like she was on her way to work.

“Hi,” Cersei said, waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

Ellyn, the eldest of Roger Reyne’s daughters, was not happy to see her.

“What do you want, Cersei?”

Cersei could understand the hostility. Ever since the big reveal, the Reyne family had not exactly had bad press. There had been countless articles on why Roger Reyne would accept Tywin Lannister’s offer, speculation that he needed money for gambling debts or worse. They had dug into the Reyne’s past like vultures and, as it often happens, when you look hard enough you’re bound to find something. So it turned out Roger Reyne liked young boys. Very young boys. Too young.

One might have said it was a blessing he only ever had daughters.

“I need somewhere to think,” Cersei said. She had never asked for permission to her own sisters, but things were different now. Ellyn was not her sister, and this was not her house. Although they had been, both, for a long time.

Ellyn was weighing her options. She was never cruel. Rigid, yes. Stuck-up, definitely. And she would never pass up the chance to lord the situation over Cersei’s head. “Take off your shoes.” With that, Ellyn went back into the house, leaving the door open for Cersei. Looking down, she noticed she was standing in mud, and her sneakers were a mess.

 

* * *

The first thing Cersei noticed upon entering her childhood bedroom was… it was not a bedroom anymore. Back in the days the walls had been white and pink, and the carpeted floor a bright salmon. Someone had scraped the childish wallpaper and painted the walls beige. The room was filled with boxes that no one had bothered to close with some tape. She walked in, and the first thing she did was draw the curtains, open the window and let the light in. She watched the fine dust float for a little while, as the room breathed and lived again.

She approached the boxes, sat on the floor and opened the first one: inside, she found her dolls. Old, quite ugly too, hardly played with. No matter how many dolls her father used to buy for her, she would always want something bigger, something better, or something shinier. Something that wasn’t there, that didn’t exist. All her life she wanted something but she didn’t know what.

In the next box she found old pictures, drawings that she had hung up on the wall and things she had written when she was less than 6: letters to Santa, requests to her parents, war declarations to Ellyn, or Alys or, more often, to Rohanne, her least favourite sister. Those made her chuckle: she had been combative even back then, fighting to find her own place in a world that did not feel like hers. That was not, in fact, hers.

Gentle footsteps distracted her from the contents of the boxes. Ellyn appeared upon the threshold shortly after. From her position, Ellyn looked taller and magnificent; Cersei felt small and out of place.

“I didn’t know what to do with your things,” Ellyn explained, gesturing to the boxes. “I figured you might want to get them back now that…” She trailed off. Cersei knew what she referred to, and nodded a silent thank you. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Cersei hesitated. “For Robert or the rest?”  _ The rest  _ was certainly one way of referring to a secret family.

“Both? I think both.”

Her phone rang twice in her pocket. She took it out, read the texts.

**_3 Missed Phone Calls from: Jaime Lannister (2), Robert (1)_ **

**_2 New Texts from: Jaime Lannister_ **

_ (10.27) where are u? _

_ (10.28) call me back please PLEASE _

**_1 New Text from: Robert_ **

_ (10.10) where u at _

 Cersei bit her bottom lip and turned off her phone, deciding London could wait. Robert, Jaime, the whole lot of them. She needed a moment. She needed a fucking moment. A few strands fell into her eyes and she tried to stick them behind her ear. It was cold in the room; Cersei peeked at the radiator and wondered when they’d last switched it on in this room.

“Are you spending the night?” Ellyn asked, still as cold as Cersei remembered. Ellyn had been a grown woman when she was still a child, adult when she was supposed to be child. Mature, responsible. Insufferable.

“I’m not sure,” Cersei said truthfully. “Where’s my bed?”

“I figured you wouldn’t need it,” Ellyn said, not the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “You wouldn’t fit in anyway, you’ve grown taller.” Cersei hugged her legs, her subconscious warning her against her sister’s subtle psychological warfare. “You can sleep in the guestroom.”

Cersei’s eyes went to one of the boxes again, and something caught her attention. Ellyn was about to leave, but Cersei was quicker. “Ellyn, wait. What is this?” she asked, showing her a picture drawn by a child.

Ellyn squinted to look at it. “I think that’s Ser Pounce.” Cersei had no idea what Ellyn was talking about, and perhaps it showed because Ellyn laughed at her confusion. “You really don’t remember? He was your imaginary friend.”

Cersei frowned, looking at the drawing. “No, I don’t,” she said, astounded. “I really don’t.” There she was, in the picture, standing next to a young boy with blonde hair, green eyes and a red bowtie.

 

* * *

Ellyn did not go to work that day. She was a lawyer, a  _ good _ lawyer. Good enough to have her own firm and make her own rules. Even though she did not exactly hang around, Cersei knew she was the reason Ellyn had decided to stay home: was it residual affection, or lack of trust? That, she couldn’t tell. Still, she spent most of the morning tending to her plants in the greenhouse.

Cersei was on the couch, looking into the fireplace when the doorbell rang, around noon. Cersei put down her tea, went to stand and open the door but Ellyn beat her to it. She was still half sitting when she heard Alys’ voice. “Is she here?” She sounded angry.

Ellyn kept her voice low, so Cersei couldn’t tell exactly what was said between them, but next thing she knew Alys Reyne had entered the room, visibly pregnant and unhappy. “Cersei.” Her hair was lighter than Ellyn’s, longer and plainer, dull. As was her face. The middle child. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Cersei greeted, matching her sister’s coldness. “I just needed to get away from…”

_ Him _ .  _ Myself _ . For a moment she wanted to leave Cersei Lannister behind and go back to being Cersei Reyne, when her problems had been so much smaller, insignificant even.

Alys was angry, but Cersei knew she wasn’t being rational; she may blame her for what had happened to Roger Reyne now, but only because the person she should blame was no longer alive to take it. Cersei knew that feeling well: if Tywin were alive, she wasn’t sure how she might have reacted.

“Come on,” Ellyn was doing her best to keep an apparent peace. “I’ll make some tea.”

Ellyn disappeared into the kitchen, while Cersei and Alys remained in the dining room. Neither spoke for a while, especially Alys, who kept avoiding Cersei’s proximity.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” Cersei said, tentatively. They both sat down on the couch, at the opposite ends. Cersei’s hands were in her lap, and she didn’t truly know what to do with them. Weird enough, she desperately wanted to touch her sister’s belly.

“There’s a lot you don’t know.”

The fact she’d answered was a step forward from the silent treatment she’d expected. “How far along are you?” Cersei asked then, pushing her luck.

Alys shot her a look, sideways, then looked away immediately, like she was afraid Cersei might see it as a weakness. “Eight and a half. Almost there.”

Cersei hadn’t given children much thought recently. Well, at first she’d considered the possibility, back when she still felt any sort of affection for Robert. In the first few years of their marriage they had tried without any luck. Robert had suggested she should get tested, but the results had come back negative. Cersei had earned herself a slap just for suggesting he do the same. Time had passed, and in spite of their attempts month after month she kept getting her period. Robert was growing impatient and began to blame her, which only made her furious and less willing to have children at all. After a few years, they stopped trying. Cersei thought that had been the beginning of Robert’s resentment – that was until she’d found out about Lyanna Stark.

“I don’t have any,” she told Alys for some reason.

Alys looked at her now, defiantly. “You wouldn’t be much of a mother, really.”

Alys was sharp as a knife, and she always knew which buttons to push to hurt you the most. Because she was small, and undoubtedly the most fragile among them, she had developed a certain cruelty. Cersei couldn’t tell if she despised of admired her. “Can’t disagree with that,” she said, sitting on the edge of the couch and stretching out her arm to warm her hands by the fire. “How’s Rohanne?”

“Fine. Married an American tycoon. Lives in Florida now.”

“Ugh, Florida?” Cersei grimaced. “Gross.”

Alys laughed, but it was short. When Cersei turned, she was looking around, like it was shameful to laugh at what she had said. Cersei knew Alys well enough: she did not want to be the first one to bury the hatchet.

In that moment, she reminded her of Jaime, and her heart sank a little. The reason for this trip was to get away from all that, yet it seemed she was unable to just drop it. It lived inside her now, she carried it with her like heavy luggage. Flashes of that night: his hands, his lips, his voice, his breath hot on her neck.

“Tea’s ready!”

 

* * *

It started to rain in the early afternoon, and it didn’t stop until the sky was dark and night had fallen. No stars, no moon, just a black canvas covering the whole region. As if Cersei’s mood needed any of that. Alys and Ellyn were trying to stay out of her hair, and she was trying to stay out of theirs. They could not exactly kick her out – well, technically, yes since she was no longer one of them. But they didn’t, and her way of showing gratitude was to lock herself in her room, going through her things to keep her mind occupied.

But she was failing. She had run out of things to think about in place of the one thing she should not think about ever. Jaime was seeping through her thoughts more frequently now, forcing her to come to terms with what had happened. He had  _ kissed _ her. She had  _ kissed _ him. Why was that so much worse than what had happened on the night of their birthday? Well - they were sober, the both of them.

And there had been  _ contact _ , proper contact. Their bodies had been pressed together, she’d had a chance to feel what she had only fantasized about. Fantasies were a loan for use deal. There was no effective price but for their soul.

This was different, though. Jaime was her brother, and she had kissed him, he had kissed her and the only reason she had stopped was… Why? Because it had suddenly become too real. Kissing could be considered a mistake, naivety. But what was about to happen… it was illegal. If anyone were to find out, their lives would be over.

Oh, but she was so close to giving in.

A knock on the door. Ellyn’s voice. “Can I come in?”

The latest box she had found held some old t-shirts that were not her style anymore. She had donned a Jack Daniel’s shirt just to see what she would look like today. It still fit, but it wasn’t the  _ right fit _ in a sense. She was not that person anymore. Ellyn opened the door and the shirt Cersei was wearing was the first thing she noticed. “Why are you wearing that?”

Cersei took it off, folded it and put it back in the box.

Ellyn waited on the threshold, but once it was clear Cersei would not give her much more she let herself in and closed the door behind her. With her back against the wall, she slid all the way to the floor, crossing her legs. Cersei found it atypical of her, Miss Perfect.

“So…” Ellyn started. “How are they?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Your brothers.”

Cersei took a deep breath and sat down on one of the boxes, the one that looked more solid. “They’re fine.”

Ellyn rolled her eyes. “Is that it? Really?  _ Fine _ ?”

Cersei shrugged. “What do you want me to say? They’re my brothers. When we’re together, it feels right. In a way it never did with you.” Cersei liked hard truths better than sugar-coated lies. In that sense, Ellyn and she were the same. In fact, her “sister” smiled in acknowledgement. “Tyrion is… the funniest man I have ever met. He’s wild, but smart and kind. Kind in a way I could never be.”

“And what about Jaime Lannister? London’s most desirable bachelor.”

Cersei’s fingers tightened in her knees, fingernails scraping the jeans. Ellyn was waiting for an answer, and it would look suspicious to make her wait. But her stomach was in knots and it was getting harder to breathe. “He makes me whole.”

And that was the whole truth, at last, spoken before someone who had become a stranger.

Ellyn’s small smile faltered at that. Cersei noticed and hurried to stand up and look away. “I’ll have someone pick these up in the morning.” Ellyn pushed herself off the floor, wiped some dust from her pants and nodded. She was uncomfortable, and so was Cersei. “I have to make a phone call, excuse me.”

Ellyn did not say anything more after that, but before she left the room the pair exchanged a look that was filled with all the words they had never said, and all the ones they were too scared to say. Cersei wondered if Ellyn was warning her, if she knew and was using her eternal wisdom to try and dissuade her from whatever mess she’d gotten herself into.

When she turned on her phone, it started buzzing like crazy with all she had missed.

**_33 Missed Phone Calls: Jaime Lannister (25), Tyrion Lannister (6), Robert (2)_ **

**_3 New Texts from Jaime Lannister:_ **

_ (12.01) please call me back we need to talk _

_ (14.47) cersei _

_ (20.59) I’m soryr pleas call me backk _

**_1 New Text from Tyrion Lannister:_ **

_ (22.10) Call me back asap _

**_1 New Text from Robert:_ **

_ (22.07) Which hospital? _

Her heart stopped when she read that word. What did it mean? Dread took over, and her hands began to shake as she dialled Jaime’s phone number. It went straight to voicemail. She swallowed, looking at the screen, considering her options. She dialled Tyrion’s number next, but she was already out of the room, her feet guiding her in the middle of her panic.

When Tyrion answered, his voice was low, a whisper. “Where the fuck are you?”

“What happened?” She was running down the stairs now, completely unaware of her surroundings, going through it like you would a dream.  _ A nightmare. _

“Jaime was in a car accident.” She halted.  _ He’s alive _ , she thought.  _ If he were dead I would know it _ . But Tyrion’s voice betrayed him. “They’re doing everything they can.” His voice broke for the fraction of a second, and that was perhaps the thing that scared her the most.

She ran out the door, leaving the door open. Ellyn was on the threshold, looking in confusion as Cersei all but jumped into the car and started the ignition. She pressed her foot on the gas pedal, and the tires screeched as she changed gears and went in reverse, all the way down the pathway. With a sharp U-turn, she sped up through the open gates, hands gripping the steering wheel, feeling half dead herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> "At the end of the bed, she watched his chest rise and fall systematically. Jaime’s blood was on her hands. Wasted, he’d gotten into a car and begun his ride upstate, refusing a chauffeur. The moment they’d told her where they’d found him she’d known: he was driving upstate, he was driving to Castamere. He was driving to find her. Drunk and alone, he’d let desperation get the best of him. He planned to have her face what she had been too cowardly to. Tyrion must have known as well, else he wouldn’t have been that angry."


	13. slumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! Thank you for being patient and understanding. The last couple of weeks have been filled with good things, exceptional things. I'm in a better place than I was the last time I wrote an Author's note for Perihelion, I'm glad for it. I'm anxious to dive into the story, to keep exploring these characters inside out. It does feel like home, sometimes.  
> I won't keep you waiting any longer, so... enjoy the chapter, and as always I'll see you at he end for a preview of the next one. Lots of love,  
> f.

She counted the money in her hand, then looked at the vending machine. She inserted the coins, punched the number 03. The bottle of water fell into the drawer with a loud clanking. She bent down, picked it up and returned to her seat in the waiting room. Everything around her was white and green. The walls were white, the plants were green. The lights were white, blinding, and the doctor’s coats. The doors that read “SURGERY” were green.

It had been a mad ride back to London. The following day Page Six would have a picture of Cersei Lannister wearing a white shirt and a pair of jeans, sprinting through the doors of the royal London Hospital.

Tyrion was pacing. Robert had called saying he’d talked to the doctors, explained the situation, and that he would not be dropping by the hospital to avoid a scene with the reporters. Still, the Prime Minister’s brother-in-law was not just any patient, and he’d made sure everyone in the hospital knew. Cersei had been grateful to Robert for the first time in… she did not remember  _ ever _ being grateful to Robert.

“It’s taking too long,” Tyrion kept muttering under his breath.

Cersei did not want to hear him. She stood up angrily and wandered across the corridors without a direction. A few people recognized her, but no one stopped her. Hospitals were nobody’s land: even somewhat famous people were entitled to grief. She was looking for a balcony, somewhere she could light up a cigarette or ten.

She did not feel good; it was like hanging by a thread, knowing there’s no one underneath to catch you.

Everything felt antiseptic, sterile, impersonal. Even the air was filtered, it smelt like disinfectant and unidentified chemicals. What she wouldn’t give to catch a whiff of his cologne now, turn around and see him standing there, laughing at her preoccupation, mocking her for the wrinkles she would get when she was older.

Then she found the chapel.

It was a small room: two rows of benches on each side and an altar right ahead, with a cross hanging above it. Cersei could not remember the last time she’d been to Mass. She did not know if she  _ believed _ in a higher being. But she had nowhere to go, no one to talk to. And didn’t they say the Lord’s house was open to all the lost souls? She surely felt lost now.

She picked the last bench, the one furthest from the cross. She stared at her hands; how was one supposed to pray? Cersei had just closed her eyes when someone sat down beside her: an old woman, uneasy on her own two legs. Cersei was mildly annoyed; the chapel was empty, and she could have picked literally any other spot. “Husband?” the crone asked.

Cersei thought it tactless, but something inside her needed to reach out. “My brother. My twin, actually.”

“Ah,” the woman looked at her. “And so young too.”

Cersei looked outraged. “He’s not dead.”  _ If he were dead I would know it _ . That seemed to silence the older woman, but she didn’t leave. It felt… unnerving. She glanced over her shoulder, watching the people outside walking past the chapel without as much as a second look. She envied them; some were carefree, some had no idea the pain inside those walls. Her pain, her fears.

She knew him so little, and  _ for _ so little, but the idea of losing him was more than she could handle. It felt like she was being torn limb by limb. Invisible claws were tearing her asunder, and her eyes were welling up. No one would see her cry, not even this old stranger, so she cast her eyes downward, hoping she’d get the hint and just… go.

But she didn’t.

“My husband has been here for seven months.”  _ I don’t care, old hag _ . “I’ve been praying to God.”

Cersei had to remember her place. If she were just any other woman, she would have said exactly what she was thinking: that God, if any such thing existed, didn’t bother listening to the likes of them. But she was the wife of the Prime Minister. “I’m sure he will be merciful.” Her own voice sounded fake.

“Oh.” The old woman sounded surprised and let out a chuckle. That made Cersei look at her. “You think I’m praying  _ for _ him. Understandable.” Cersei swallowed, drawn to the woman by some mysterious force like a moth to a flame. Suddenly she cared what she had to say. “I’m praying to God, praying that he  _ takes _ him. That he never wakes up.” Cersei looked her over; she must have been around 80 years old, so chances were her wishes would be granted. “Would you spare a prayer for me, child?”

Cersei hesitated. What could the man have done to anger her so much? Her thoughts went to Robert, her eyes lost focus.

“Cersei.” Tyrion waited for her on the threshold, the neon lights coming from the corridor cast his face in darkness. She could not see how grave his expression was, or if it was grave at all. She forgot to breathe for the longest second. “He’s out.”

 

* * *

He was asleep. Well, technically, he was in a coma, but Cersei decided to tell herself he was asleep. The doctors had allowed her and Tyrion in to explain the situation, but Cersei had struggled to follow the conversation. She was focused on her brother’s sleeping form, on the tubes coming out of his nose, his forearm, from underneath the covers. She couldn’t take her eyes from the bandages wrapped tight around his head, his golden hair matted with dried up blood, his eyes closed and bruised. Her legs threatened to give out.

Even though she never listened to what the doctors were saying, one thing was clear: there was nothing else they could do, all they could hope for was he would wake up on his own. Cersei thought of the old woman in the chapel: her husband had been in the hospital for seven months. Jaime wouldn’t be one of those that never woke up. As she looked at him part of her wished his eyes would open and look back.

The moment the doctors left, Cersei was alerted by the beeping of the machines. Jaime’s heartbeat was stable, as were his blood pressure and oxygen. There was no reason why he should not be awake right now, and that irked her. Was he playing a practical joke?  _ Stupid _ . She approached the bed, hesitant, and halted when he was within reach. Looking down at his form, perfectly still, she caught a whiff of hand sanitizer.

“My brother has always been reckless, but not  _ this _ reckless.” Tyrion was done being kind, that much was clear by the anger in his voice. Cersei turned to him, felt small under his glare. “And he won’t talk to me.” The bitterness cut deep. Cersei had taken a certain liking to Tyrion, she thought he was smart and fun, and he understood things in a way most people didn’t. She didn’t like being on the opposite end of his reproach. “I know what’s happening, Cersei. He told me.” Cersei held his stare, never one to back off during a fight. Her deepest secret, about to be exposed in a white hospital room; ironic. She could not believe Jaime would have given them up so easily.

“Don’t presume to understand shit. Jaime and I are… different,” she hissed, low, aware of the people lingering outside, walking by Jaime’s room. All her senses were heightened, she was on edge but she tried to keep her cards close to her chest.

There had always been a competition for Jaime’s affection, the moment she’d showed up, whether they liked it or not. Hidden under layers of pleasantries, Cersei had never quite let go of the childhood she’d been denied, whereas Tyrion blamed her for a present that did not seem to include him quite as radically any longer. The relationship between her and Tyrion was… always tainted by the ups and downs of their own relationships with the one brother they shared.

And that same brother was now unconscious, lying asleep in between them, giants at war.

“He  _ told me _ you want Lannister Ltd.”

Cersei did not reply. So  _ that _ was what he knew. She wished it were as easy as that. The reality was much more complicated, not to mention currently illegal in many countries in the world. Their secret was safe, still.

Cersei slipped her hand in Jaime’s and squeezed. “So what?” Cersei asked, brushing her thumb against the back of his hand. There was no reaction. She wished he could hug her, she wouldn’t have run this time. “I’m not taking anything from you, you can’t  _ touch _ the company.”

“You’re very much taking something from me.”

That sounded extremely final. They had never fought, perhaps because they had never felt anything that visceral toward each other. They had been shoved together by circumstances and by Jaime. Cersei held on tight to Jaime’s hand. “I have taken nothing that wasn’t rightfully mine.” Her voice was trembling, but not with tears, nor fears. With anger.

“Yes, and see how well that worked out for him.”

A pause.

Cersei did  _ not _ look at Jaime. She knew what she would see there: her own mistakes and the guilt of the runaway. In hindsight, she had to wonder if things would have been different if she had not left him that night. Or even if she’d given him the kindness to return his phone calls and his texts the previous day. Outside the sky was dark and the city slept.

Had the reporters left the premises? Or would they be waiting for her, vultures thirsty for blood?

“I won’t leave, Tyrion,” she said.

“I can arrange a town car to-“

“I said, I won’t leave.” To emphasize that word, she pulled out a chair and sat down by Jaime’s bed. Tyrion sighed deeply and shook his head before leaving the room. As she watched him leave, she frowned. For the first time she felt something bubbling in her stomach.

Something close to rancour.

 

* * *

Tyrion left a couple hours later, when it became clear Cersei had no intention of leaving. With the promise to come back in the morning, he’d left reluctantly, although admitting it would make more sense to take turns. Cersei hadn’t spared a look in his direction when he’d said goodbye, still seething from the fight.

There were no other patients in Jaime’s room, in spite of the three empty beds. Cersei supposed being the newly-discovered brother-in-law of the Prime Minister had its perks: in the morning they’d move him to a spacious room on a different floor, a  _ better _ room they’d assured. Cersei didn’t care much for any of that, as she hoped he would wake up  _ before _ they needed to move him. They’d laugh at that together, and he would go home with her, and they would never see a hospital again as long as they lived.

She had not left his side, save for using the private toilet in the room. Every time she returned into the room, she hoped she’d find him awake, miraculously. But that didn’t happen.

A nurse walked in around 4 am to change the piss bag and check his vitals.  _ No changes _ , Cersei knew by the look on her. Jaime’s hand was limp in hers, giving no signs of acknowledgement. The presence of someone else in the room irritated her, like they were interrupting some magic ritual. Cersei was sure she could wish him awake.

“Mrs. Baratheon?”

Cersei was tired, her eyelids were particularly heavy with the exhaustion of the day. She looked up to the young nurse with long black curls who was checking her brother’s pulse. “Yes?”

“I have spent a lot of time in the I.C.U. of the neonatology ward,” she began. Clearly uneasy with the idea of speaking to the wife of the Prime Minister, she looked for ways to keep busy, and her voice wasn’t as determined as it should be. Cersei felt weak, but the woman in front of her sounded even less strong. “Sometimes, with twins… it’s tricky, because it’s not an exact science.”

Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but she couldn’t make out what the other girl was saying. “I don’t follow.”

“If a twin is less… healthy than the other one,” she tried to explain, finally finding the courage to look her in the eye. “All I’m saying is, vicinity helps. Sometimes we’d put twins in the same incubator. The proximity… the weaker twin would often be better in the morning.”

Cersei blinked, trying to absorb the information. She had heard of that of course, may have seen a few episodes of some medical show. Perhaps, subconsciously, that was precisely the reason why she’d refused to leave the room. It was that sensation she could not give a name to. “Thank you,” Cersei said, nodding. The brunette smiled, wrote something on Jaime’s chart and left.

And they were alone again. The chair was uncomfortable, and her butt cheeks had begun to ache. She got up and paced the room, trying to stretch the muscles of her legs. Still wearing jeans and sneakers, someone might have a hard time recognizing her. She pulled her hair up in a ponytail and rubbed her eyes, trying her best to fight the sleep that threatened to overcome her. She wouldn’t succumb.

“Asshole,” she murmured, shooting a glance at Jaime’s sleeping form. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” She passed a hand over her forehead, fought the urge to lie down and give up. “I can’t believe this.”

At the end of the bed, she watched his chest rise and fall systematically. Jaime’s blood was on her hands. Wasted, he’d gotten into a car and begun his ride upstate, refusing a chauffeur. The moment they’d told her where they’d found him she’d known: he was driving upstate, he was driving to Castamere. He was driving to find her. Drunk and alone, he’d let desperation get the best of him. He planned to have her face what she had been too cowardly to. Tyrion must have known as well, else he wouldn’t have been that angry.

The night seemed never-ending. Minute after minute, it felt like hours, days, months, years. Yet it wasn’t. It was only 4.30 am again and Jaime was still asleep. It struck her that she should be asleep as well. Robert had texted her around 2 am to tell her he’d be around in the morning.

Cersei wished she could cry. If only she could just  _ do that _ , perhaps she’d feel better. All those feelings, bottled up inside to the point where the tiniest spark could make it all burst, and she would drown – she would love to avoid such a scene in front of an audience. But everything was stacked and piled up, leaving no room whatsoever for any relief. Nothing could make her feel better now. Nothing could make her feel better ever again, unless Jaime woke up.

It was 4.37 am when the nurse’s words found their way back to her, nagging. Her body acted of its own accord, kicking the sneakers from her feet and climbing onto the bed with him, on the side where there were no tubes or machines. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, draped a leg over his and an arm over his stomach, beneath the covers so she could feel the skin. He was warm. His breathing lulled her tired body, the smell of him had an instantly soothing effect on her sore muscles.

What she wanted was to feel his arm snake around her waist and pull her against him; she wanted him to stroke her hair and crack a joke about it; she wanted to tell him that it was okay, that they had made a mistake but it wasn’t beyond repair. That they could still be brother and sister, that they could still be in each other’s lives and forget all that was not appropriate. That they could push aside what they were feeling.

She wanted to tell him all that, even though it was a terrible lie.

Instead she fell asleep, the beeping of the machinery slowly fading out.

 

* * *

Something was touching her shoulder. It woke her up. Cersei opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the light in the room. It took her a moment to realize what was touching her was a hand, gently shaking her awake.

“Mrs Baratheon,” said a gentle voice. Cersei looked up, sleep still in her eyes. A new nurse was looking down at her, a chubby redhead with what could only be described as a  _ kind _ face. “My name is Andy,” she said, low. “I need you to leave the room, Mrs Baratheon,” she explained. Cersei’s face must have given up what she thought about abandoning her brother, her arms tightening around him, because Andy was quick to smile reassuringly. “I just have to bathe him,” she said. “I’ll let you back in as soon as we’re done.”

Andy offered a hand to help her get off the bed, which Cersei accepted after long consideration. She was unstable on her legs, due to exhaustion. A quick glance at the clock told her it was 8.13 am, so she had not slept much at all. If life were a movie, she’d have woken up to see him looking down at her, but there was no change in him whatsoever.

The dread that this might not be temporary was settling.  _ How long? _ She was sure it would work, the nurse had said…

Andy closed the door behind her and Cersei found herself in the corridor, out of place and confused. She was fully aware of the looks she was drawing; she was a ghost of what those people knew her to be. The gilded aura long gone, she was human, which most presents seemed to find surprising to say the least. She lingered, arms crossed, hugging herself, before deciding she could use a coffee. She walked all the way to the vending machine, looking into the rooms as she went by. Inside, she saw most patients were alone, and she realized it wasn’t common for people to be allowed to stay the night. There were visiting hours, and shifts, and… She was privileged, of course. Had Robert paid someone?

The smell of coffee filled the air as the liquid was poured into the tiny paper cup. Cersei caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the colourful glass of the vending machine. It tasted awful, but she downed it all the same. Then she craved a cigarette, and went looking for any sort of balcony. She asked around, and the nurses told her most of the times the door to the roof is unlocked, so she could go there if she wanted some privacy. She did.

That was the first gulp of cold, unfiltered oxygen of the past twelve hours. There was a special quality to the air you breathe inside hospitals. The smell of shit and decay mixed with sanitizers and chemicals. She preferred the smell of London: shit and decay, but without the chemicals. She needed a shower, probably. Or at least, her clothes would need washing up soon. She would stink of nicotine if she walked back into the room now, and she didn’t like that, so she lingered outside, on the roof, waiting for the stink to diminish. Puffy grey clouds covered London like a blanket; it would rain again soon. She could smell it. It had rained all night. This was nothing but a short truce.

As she walked her way back to Jaime’s room, in a haze, she felt like she was moving within the bowels of a big beast, looking for elixir. The stares followed her wherever she went. “ _ Her brother _ ,” someone whispered. She heard that, but kept walking. Everywhere she went people reminded her Jaime was her  _ brother _ , but she wanted to shake them, tell them no, he was so much more than that. They couldn’t possibly understand. How could they, when even Tyrion was completely oblivious?

She stopped in her tracks when she reached the threshold of Jaime’s room. The bed was gone. Panic seized her, and her hands clenched, not gripping anything but air. “Jaime…?” Barely above a whisper, she looked around. “Jaime?” Again, questioning the empty room, hoping the walls would answer. Down the corridor, she saw Andy, the same nurse from earlier. “Where is my brother?” she asked.

Andy instantly knew what was going through Cersei’s mind and smiled, that smile that Cersei found so warm and reassuring. “He’s fine,” she told her, “I wanted to tell you but I couldn’t find you. They moved him to the fifth floor for some… privacy.”

_ The better room _ . Cersei breathed again, nodded. “Where…”

“I’ll go with you,” Andy offered.

Together, in the pristine clean lift, Cersei and Andy rode to the fifth floor. In her corner, Cersei would shoot suspicious looks at the other woman. The lift would stop at most floors, letting someone in and someone out, but Andy never left her side. Naturally cautious by nature, Cersei was torn between gratitude and fear. The doors slid open on the fifth floor, letting Cersei and Andy out alongside a couple of doctors. Immediately Cersei noticed a difference between the floors beneath and the fifth floor. First off, it smelled nicer. You could still smell the chemicals, but there was vanilla in the air as well. The walls were a relaxing salmon colour, the floors black marble. Overall, it looked more elegant, and cleaner. More hospitable.

_ I don’t want it to be hospitable, _ she thought, following Andy down the corridors.  _ I want us to leave this place and never come back _ . Andy greeted a few people on her way, and Cersei distinctly heard her mention something to a colleague about a  _ special delivery _ . Was she the special delivery? Did everyone know she was there? And Jaime too?

“In here.”

Cersei entered the room. It was… quite a change from the terrible rooms downstairs. Jaime’s bed was the only bed in here. On one wall were tall windows and clean curtains to shield from the outside. On the walls were artistic portraits meant to transmit serenity. There was a television, a small table where she saw her purse and some of Jaime’s things that had been retrieved in the car, a big couch where at least three people could sit comfortably.

“This isn’t my floor,” Andy explained, “But I’m sure my colleagues will help you.”

She was about to leave, and Cersei spun on her heels. “Wait.” She rummaged in her pockets, looking for money. She only found a 20, but Andy shook her head ‘no’.

“It’s my job, ma’am.”

Cersei nodded. She was not one to say  _ thank you, _ money was usually the safest way to a person’s good graces. Andy left before Cersei could voice her gratitude. Alone, in Jaime’s room, she noticed the beeping was not as loud in here, for some reason. It was less of a hospital room and more of a hotel room. She walked up to the table, checked her phone for any calls and found a dozen. She didn’t bother checking them: all she cared about was  _ in _ this room. The battery read 1%, and Cersei stared at the screen until it went black and the phone died.

Her eyes fell on Jaime’s jeans, folded neatly on the nearest chair. His wallet peeked from inside the back pocket, and she resisted the urge to snoop. She glanced over to Jaime, still asleep, still no changes. She felt so tired, and wanted nothing more than to close her eyes for a little while longer. Tyrion would be there soon, probably, and tell her to go home. And even if she refused, Robert would drop by soon enough, and she could not refuse  _ him _ . Cersei knew what Robert’s PR team would say about her making a scene where everyone could hear.

The idea of leaving him like that… her stomach was in knots.

She lay back onto the couch, resting her head against the armrest, watching him.

 

* * *

“ _ …the last of dad’s car. _ ”

“ _ I won’t miss it. _ ”

“ _ I will miss it more than I miss him… _ ”

“ _ Oh come on- _ ”

“ _ Look, she’s waking up… _ ”

Cersei thought she must have been dreaming. She kept her eyes closed for a while longer. The sun entering the room through the windows was warming her face. She registered barely someone must have pulled the curtains to let the sunshine in. Her muscles were sore, her back hurt from sleeping on a couch that would not allow her to stretch her legs. She groaned and rubbed her eyes, before opening.

“Good morning.”

Tyrion’s voice got her attention immediately. Cersei didn’t sit up immediately, inspecting her surroundings for a brief moment. She made a mental note of everything her eyes laid on: the television, the table, the bathroom door, Tyrion and Jaime looking at her…

Tyrion and Jaime looking at her.

Jaime looking at her.

Cersei might have pinched herself, but reality was cold and harsh around her so she knew she must not be dreaming, contrary to what she believed. Slowly, she sat up, and the moment her feet touched the cold ground she shivered. It wasn’t until now that she realized how cold it was in the room.

Jaime turned to Tyrion. He murmured something she could not hear, but his voice was raspy. Tyrion nodded and left the room, but not without a small smile at his sister’s address. She wondered if that was an apology for the way he’d acted the previous day. Right now… she didn’t care.

The door closed softly behind her youngest brother and for the first time they found themselves alone, both of them fully awake, since that night in Storm’s End.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, looking away.

“A couple hours,” he said. His voice was extremely low, Cersei assumed his vocal chords wouldn’t allow him to speak too loud.

She stood up to spare him the struggle, and approached the side of the bed. “You should have woken me up.”

Jaime smiled. “You look like shit,” he murmured, and it was rich coming from him, with his dark circles, his stubble and dirty hair, his chapped lips and the bandages around his head. “Didn’t think that was possible.”

Cersei felt something wet her cheek. “I still look better than you,” she said with a small pout.

He laughed a little, but groaned in pain immediately. “Can’t laugh,” Jaime explained, “Broken rib,” he pointed at his left side. As soon as the pain subsided, he turned his eyes back to her face. “Don’t cry, Cers.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, stubbornly, wiping a tear from her face quickly. “Are you okay? Like, will you have any… problems? They said you hit your head pretty hard.”

Jaime shook his head -  _ no _ . “They asked me a lot of questions. Like, if I remembered my name. Tyrion’s. Yours. Year, day. The Prime Minister.” Jaime smirked a little at that.

“And did you?”

Jaime was silent for a long while, eyes boring into hers. She let him place his hand over hers, squeeze it and hold it. “I remember everything.” Cersei turned her hand in his and returned his squeeze, not truly knowing what she meant to say, but giving something back because she felt it.

“Jaime?” she started, watery. ”Can we go home now?”

Jaime closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> He wanted her to stay and he wanted her to stop running. Lunch would be a good start, maybe. He would convince her to stay the afternoon. He’d ask her to play cards with him, to help him scratch his back because he couldn’t quite reach it. He’d offer her tea and biscuits, and even though she would refuse, he would ask her to keep him company, and she would stay because he knew she felt guilty. He could capitalize on guilt, if it meant spending time with her.
> 
> It was a shitty excuse, but it was the only thing he had. That, and a broken leg, and a broken spirit.


	14. day of reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening you wonderful peeps - or whatever time of day it is where you are! This is your usual reminder that I appreciate your love so very much, it is the sole fuel for a fanfiction writer. So again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading this. I've noticed an increase in kudos, which makes me happy because it means in spite of the months on this old girl's back, it still manages to find new readers. And I couldn't be happier!  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter, and I'll see you at the end with some spoily spoilers from chapter 15!  
> xoxo,  
> f.

Jaime felt uncomfortable. They gave him a wheelchair, in order to allow him to leave the hospital. He was sure he could have done well with crutches, but the doctors suggested it would be difficult to use crutches with a broken wrist and a fractured leg. It didn’t make it less unnerving, to be wheeled around.

It wasn’t quite as easy as they’d hoped it would be, leaving the hospital. The medical team insisted he should stay for another week, to be sure the procedure had gone well, and a punctured lung was no easy business. He was eager to leave the place. Hated being monitored, hated the nurses washing him and hated the tube up his cock. He was not… patient. At all. In his arrogance, he felt humiliated. Once, he’d tried to get up to prove a point: that he did not need anyone, that they were all being way too overprotective. It had been a failure, though. His head had begun spinning, his leg had started throbbing and given out when he tried to stand on it. If it hadn’t been for a male nurse walking by in that precise moment he’d have fallen, and risked worsening his condition. His broken rib had been stabilized during the surgery, but the bone would need some time to heal properly.

Overall, it was the worst week of Jaime’s life.

He thought about the accident often, as it happens when you do something you regret. He regretted getting in that car, regretted drinking so much, regretted going to Storm’s End piss drunk to question the staff about Cersei’s whereabouts. He’d put the pieces together on his own: there was nowhere else she could hide, except for Castamere.

It was all a blur, after the crash, and then pitch dark until he’d opened his eyes and she had been the first thing he had seen. Dishevelled, dressed like a commoner, asleep on the sofa of his hospital room.  _ Heaven _ , he’d thought.  _ I died, and I am in Heaven _ . But his awakening had been followed by a nurse and a doctor checking on his condition, and Tyrion’s arrival. Cersei had slept through the chaos, which was a testimony of how exhausted she must have been.  _ “She spent the whole night by your side,” _ the nurses told her. Jaime felt his heart swell with… something.

Something he was terrified to give a name to.

In the beginning Cersei and Tyrion were around a lot.  _ Too much _ . What he wanted was a chance to heal on his own, without his brother and sister knowing he had to shit in a diaper and have someone clean his ass. Jaime was a proud man, and they were pushing him to boiling temperature; one night he was forced to ask them to  _ not _ come around every day, especially not  _ twice _ a day. Tyrion laughed, whereas Cersei took it as an offense and did not show up for days after that.

They’d put his right wrist and leg in plaster cast. His torso was wrapped in tight bandages as well, to shield the recovering rib. He could not do sharp movements, or his head would hurt. Walking was unthinkable: every time he tried to put some weight on his leg, he had to bite back a pained moan. Overall, Jaime felt like a wreck, and could not refuse the wheelchair.

Since he could not use stairs, they had to turn Joanna’s study into a temporary bedroom. It felt disrespectful, Jaime thought, but it was also precisely what he knew his mother would have wanted if she were alive. All of his mother’s belongings had been moved to the attic, replaced by Jaime’s bed and a few of his personal effects from his upstairs bedroom.

His mood suffered greatly from the limitations. The first few days were the worst; he could not shower, and had to rely on other people’s help to wash. He had drawn the line at someone washing his dick; that much he could manage on his own. Whenever he looked at the mirror he saw a man he did not recognize. His beard was growing, much more than he usually let it. His hair had grown quite a bit now as well, and soon enough he’d need a haircut. He looked pale, hollowed.  _ But I’m alive _ , Jaime thought.

Cersei showed up five days after he’d moved back into Casterly Rock, alone.

If Jaime had to be honest, he was partially glad for her absence. Wallowing in self-pity allowed him to  _ not _ think about what had happened the night of Robert’s party. If he could focus his energies on the itches he couldn’t scratch, or the knots in his beard, or … anything else, then maybe he wouldn’t think about the taste of her that lingered on his tongue.

It was December 18 th . Christmas was around the corner. Jaime assumed Tyrion had given orders to decorate the mansion, as a Christmas tree had magically appeared in the foyer.  _ Deck the halls with boughs of holly, _ his brain sang,  _ falafuckingla.  _ Cersei and Jaime sat in the heated patio, watching the snow fall and cover the lawn. Her golden hair cascaded down the white fur that covered her shoulders; her cheeks were red for the cold, and every time she exhaled it formed little clouds blowing from her lips.

Neither spoke for a very long time. He hated being seen in a wheelchair, by her most of all. It would show weakness.

“You seem better,” she said. Jaime looked at her pointedly, knowing she was lying. “What, it’s true. Last time I saw you, you were a carcass.”

“Gee, thanks,” he scoffed.

“It’s a compliment.”

“You  _ have _ to work on your compliments.”

“You should shave.”

“I can’t,” he groaned, lifting his wounded hand to make a point. “And the left one isn’t as good.”

“I could help you with that,” she offered.

Silence again. The snow grew in intensity, and Cersei was uncomfortable. “We should go back in,” she proposed, and Jaime nodded. “Shall I…?” She stood up, shot a hesitant look to the wheelchair.

“I can do it,” he responded, stubbornly, and struggled with the commands until the chair was facing the right direction. “It’s a very fancy wheelchair,” he said.

“Don’t get used to it,” Cersei teased, following him inside the warmth of the mansion.

“Oh trust me, I won’t,” he said, darkly. “I can’t wait to get rid of this thing. If I could use crutches… I’d prefer those. But alas…” They were walking in the dining room.

“You can lean on me.”

Jaime snorted. “You’re a twig.” It was nice to slip back into the comfort of their banter, that felt like a homecoming even more than the actual homecoming.

“I’m stronger than you think,” his sister retorted, determined.

Jaime smiled affectionately.  _ She is _ . They settled by the tall Christmas tree, Jaime stood from the chair with Cersei’s help and sat down on the couch instead. Cersei sat down next to him, her body turned towards him. Jaime was extremely aware of the proximity, so he avoided looking at her. Her touch, unexpected, surprised him. “Is it any better?” she asked, touching the spot where she knew his side was bandaged.

Acting against his instincts, he tried to shrink away from her touch. Cersei was visibly upset by that. “It only hurts when I’m breathing,” Jaime replied, sarcastic. He knew he was being dramatic, but he felt entitled to playing the victim for a while. And part of him, albeit deeply hidden, couldn’t help but blame her for what had happened.

If she had not run he wouldn’t have had to chase her. Of course one might add that if he had not kissed his sister, none of this would have happened.  _ She kissed me back _ . Jaime tried not to think about that too long, else unhealthy thoughts started forming in his brain. It was the truth, however; she  _ had _ kissed him back.

“How are Tyrion and Robert getting along?” he asked, trying desperately to change the subject. It had been a few days since the elections now, a few days since they were effectively in command, none of that ad interim bullshit. If things were to get heated, it would be now.

“Robert is harmless, really,” she commented. “Stannis is being a pain in the ass. He is just… so hostile. I’m not sure who he hates most,” she wondered out loud, “Me, or your father.”

_ Our _ father, Jaime wanted to specify. “You are a lot like him,” he let out.

That surprised her, though Jaime couldn’t tell if she was happy or mad about it. It certainly struck a chord. “In what sense?”

“Well, you are both… very determined to get what you want.” He wondered if there was any way to put this that would not end up offending her. “You don’t take  _ no _ for an answer. People are naturally drawn to you for… whatever reason.” He wasn’t looking at her now, focused on the blinking lights in the branches of the Christmas tree. “Playing with you means playing with fire.”

“People say I’m cold.”

“That’s because people don’t  _ know _ you.” He heard noises coming from the kitchen. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want you to,” he responded, a little too quickly.

He wanted her to stay and he wanted her to stop running. Lunch would be a good start, maybe. He would convince her to stay the afternoon. He’d ask her to play cards with him, to help him scratch his back because he couldn’t quite reach it. He’d offer her tea and biscuits, and even though she would refuse, he would ask her to keep him company, and she would  _ stay _ because he knew she felt guilty. He could capitalize on guilt, if it meant spending time with her.

It was a shitty excuse, but it was the only thing he had. That, and a broken leg, and a broken spirit.

“You said you could help me shave?” he said, looking away.

 

* * *

He could barely see himself in the mirror above the sink, but he could see her. As she fixed all the tools down on the counter, her face partially shielded by her golden hair, he was  _ enamoured _ . She looked nothing if not dedicated to the task ahead, which he chose to consider as dedication to  _ him _ as a whole. She was waiting for the sink to fill up with lukewarm water.

The wounds no longer hurt as much as they did the first few days. He was careful with his body, trying to avoid sharp movements moving to and from the chair. If he had to be sincere, the itching at his leg was the worst. Tyrion had given him one of those long sticks to reach underneath the cast, but it wasn’t quite the same thing.

“Chin up,” she said, pulling him from his mulling. She’d sprayed some foam into her palm, and was watching him expectantly. He swallowed and offered his face to her. The foam cushioned his cheeks against her hand, but he didn’t need to be reminded of how velvety her skin could feel. Stubbornly, he looked ahead, eyes fixed on the mirror behind her. He could smell her perfume.

It didn’t take her long to be done, and when she moved to the sink to wash her hands of the leftover foam he remained staring at his reflection. “Hello, Santa,” he said.

Cersei looked over and smiled. “It suits you.”

“Did I ever tell you they make me put on the Santa costume on Christmas night?”

“You are not nearly fat enough to pull that off.”

Jaime frowned. “They pad me up. And I wear a fake beard too. It’s… for the children.”

Jaime felt a pang in his chest, thinking of all the Christmases they had not spent together. What had Christmas night been for her? Was she one of those unruly children who refused to go to bed? Or was she in bed by 8 in hopes Santa would come early? Would she sneak into the living room when her parents were sleeping, to try and catch Santa in the act? Or did she simply never believe in the big, old man?

“What children?”

Jaime mentally chastised himself. She did not know most of the family. Soon she would have to. “Little Joy, she’s our cousin. Uncle Gerion’s daughter. And Martyn, and Willem. They’re more…removed. You’ll meet them.”

“Can’t wait.” The irony in her voice didn’t escape him. When Cersei returned, he noticed the glisten in her hand. The razor. She pulled up a stool and sat down in front of him, held the blade up. “Now... shall we?”

Jaime swallowed and nodded. The cold steel prickled his skin as she shaved off a white strip of white along his jawline. She rinsed the blade in the sink and proceeded with another section, focused on the task at hand. In fact, she was so focused Jaime had allowed himself the luxury of staring. The last time he’d been privy to her face up close had been quite different, although just as intimate. His stomach clenched at the memory.

Mechanically, she shaved and rinsed, shaved and rinsed until one side of his face was clean.

In the bathroom light her eyes took on a lighter shade of green; her hair was tucked behind her ear, so he lost himself in the burgundy red gem that adorned her earlobe. And her neck, had it always been that lean?

“Stop doing that.”

He swallowed. “Doing what?”

She glanced back briefly. “Looking at me like you’re drowning and you want me to pull you out of the water.” The blade was still pressed against his skin, dangerously close to his Adam’s apple. He could not hold back a grin. “Tell me about the afterlife.”

“There is none.”

“Not even a little white light?” The blade scraped against the tender skin of his neck, taking off a few layers of the armour he’d been born with, alongside the hair. He shook his head  _ no _ . “Well, that’s disappointing.”

Disappointing her would be his greatest failure. “Why would someone like you believe in the afterlife?”

Cersei hesitated, rinsed the blade clean again. In the sink, across the still surface of the water, foam floated calmly. “There must be more than this, right?” she asked. “I’d like that.”

He wanted to hold her. His body craved to wrap itself around her, like tangled spires. “I mean, I wasn’t ever really dead,” he corrected himself, offering the other side of her face to let her resume her task. “So maybe there is. Maybe I just never got  _ there _ .” That seemed to satisfy her, and she went back to work on his beard, shaving the last few bits of it. He felt proud of himself for giving her that.

“Almost done,” she said.

“You’re quite good at th- _ OUCH _ !” Cersei retracted her hand like she’d been burnt. He’d felt the prickling, and he didn’t have to look into her eyes to know she’d cut him. He cursed himself for hissing, seeing how wide her eyes had gone. “It’s fine. It’s normal. It happens,” he brushed it off. “Just blot it with some tissue and it’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.”

Deep inside Jaime found it endearing that she’d never done this with anyone. Not with her father, not with any of the man she’d had before Robert. Certainly not with the man himself.

He’d bled for her more than he’d bled for anyone his whole life. He would bleed over and over again, if she asked him to.

He grabbed a towel and dried his face off. Sliding a hand over his face, he inspected the work. “Not half bad, you know?” he told her. “Next time we’ll work on shaving against the growth.” He was looking more like himself now; that, alongside her presence, was doing wonders for his mood. Was it so easy? Was that all he needed to be happy? A clean-shaven face and… _ her _ ?

“What are you doing on Christmas?” she asked, washing her hands again.

“Dad used to have these big family reunions. I’m assuming people expect me to do the same.”

“What do  _ you _ want?” Jaime looked up, sharply. Their eyes met in their reflection in the mirror. Cersei snorted, threw the towel in the laundry basket, all the while shaking her head, amused; then she turned around with arms crossed and leant back against the sink. “What do you want that you _ can _ have?”

“See, that’s the problem,” he let out, bitterly. “Looks like the only thing I want is the one I can’t have.”

Silence fell. Jaime could hear noises coming from downstairs, where dinner must be almost ready. She’d cast her eyes downward, and this time he didn’t care for it; she knew why she was running, knew why she was afraid. He’d bring it up again, and again, make it so she couldn’t turn around without thinking about it. How long could she run from it? There were only so many miles a woman could run before she had to take a breath.

“Cersei…”

“Jaime, don’t.”

“We  _ have to _ talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Cersei pushed herself off the sink and rushed out. Jaime wished his strength back. If he were able, he would have stopped her. But he could barely stand without leaning on something or someone. He’d lost his vantage. He followed her, back into the bedroom, cursing the wheelchair that slowed him down and made him feel helpless and pathetic.

“You kissed me,” he said, low.

That made her stop abruptly and turn around, finger pointed at him. “You kissed me first.”

“And I would do it again.”

She groaned. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, feeling invigorated by the admission. They were talking about it. Talking about it meant acknowledging it. It was so much better than pretending it had never happened. “Say you don’t feel the same way.” Her jaw trembled, but she remained silent. He saw it as a chance to press on. “You can’t. Because you do.”

“I’ll show you.”

He was not expecting that. “Show me what?”

“I’ll show you I don’t feel the same way.” Her voice was shaking, insecure.

It would certainly kill him. If she really did not feel the same way about him, it would finish what the car accident had not managed. Was his heart still beating? Why did she look so hard all of a sudden, so foreign? She’d put up a wall, and he’d let her, dumb fuck that he was.

So be it. “Then show me.”

Cersei waited a beat before closing the distance between them. She bent to have her face level with his, hands gripping the chair’s handles so hard the knuckles went white. And without a word, she pressed her lips against his. Cold, emotionless. Jaime didn’t even close his eyes, because he knew what she was doing. He wouldn’t let her make a mockery of this: he loved her too much to let it go unpunished.

He slipped his good hand behind her neck, holding her there. His fingers woven through her hair, his thumb massaging her scalp. He closed his eyes finally, and kissed her differently. He didn’t need to make it deeper, he just needed to make it meaningful. So he kissed her bottom lip, barely grazing it with his teeth; slowly, her lips responded. He was alert to any and all reactions, so he felt the hot air leaving her lips and mixing with his breath when she pulled away, not even an inch.

He knew if he had both hands he could slip the other one under her skirt to find her wet.

“Nothing?” he asked.

“Nothing.” It was barely a whisper.

_ Liar _ .

She straightened herself, and stared at him with arms crossed, like she’d given him some evidence in support of her thesis. Jaime licked his lips, holding in a chuckle. “Well then,” he began. “If that’s your decision...” He wheeled the chair closer to her, but before he could pass her by he halted, placed a hand above her knee and squeezed gently. A gesture that might have been mistaken for something innocent. It wasn’t. “I’ll respect it.” He caressed her inner thigh with his thumb, passed his whole palm over the expanse of the white skin she hid under her clothes, fondly.

Too fondly.

He retracted it suddenly and smiled up at her. She looked feral.

“Lunch then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION: 
> 
> “They hate me, don’t they?”
> 
> Her concern amused him. So far he had never seen his sister fear anyone’s judgement. He also knew she craved to be loved. “They don’t,” he said, affectionate. “How could anyone hate you?”
> 
> Cersei’s eyebrows shot up and Jaime laughed. He kissed her forehead, unable to resist contact, something primal and necessary. “And if they don’t like you then fuck them, you got me.” Jaime cursed the crutches; he wanted to grab her hand. He usually found it so incredibly easy to lead her, so natural to have her by his side. He might hold her hand and never let her go.
> 
> It was unfair he was not allowed to.


	15. baby it's cold outside - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she meets the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello cupcakes! Here we are for our weekly date. I'm very happy to share this one because, as you'll see, some things are beginning to unfold and some mysteries are about to be unveiled. I am so very grateful everytime I see a new chapter sparking conversation and speculation between you guys. I can't always partake because... well, I know how things go and I can't possibly answer your questions without spoiling you, but please know I read and love all of your ideas, you are without a doubt the nicest bunch of people I have ever shared a story with!  
> On with the chapter, and I'll see you at the end for a small preview of what's to come!  
> As usual, a special thank you to my other half, Ashley, to whom I owe it all.  
> f.

Jaime had always loved Christmas. He supposed it had to do with the beauty of Casterly Rock covered in snow. Every December, memories of each past Christmas flooded his mind. Most of his memories were tied to Tyrion and Tywin, but every now and then Joanna slithered through his consciousness. He was so young then, and alone. Some of his latest memories of their mother were of her pregnancy bump, back when Tyrion was only a promise. He must have gotten his festive mood from Joanna, because Tywin had never been that enamoured with the holidays.  Not since Joanna’s death. Too much time to spend in a house where everything spoke of what and who was missing.

There was a life before Joanna’s death, and a life after Joanna’s death. Jaime was unlucky enough to remember both of them. Often, Tyrion told him he was lucky to have known a  _ before _ . Jaime responded that it only made the  _ after _ more bitter.

As a rule, for himself, he’d decided to  _ love  _ Christmas. Yes, he had  _ decided _ to do so. The alternative was very grim. He’d managed roping Tyrion in on it. Jaime had raised his younger brother on gingerbread and full stockings. There was no point waiting for Tywin: no Christmas spirit would be found there. Casterly Rock may have been filled with people on Christmas Day, but Tywin was always on the outside, looking in. He was somewhere none of them could reach him. Even though he sat at the head of the table, he was elsewhere, in those same rooms of their past, where Joanna could keep him company.

This Christmas was important. Not only would they host a whole pride of Lannisters, the whole Baratheon family would be joining them. After endless conversations about it – mostly between Tyrion and Robert – everyone had decided it would look better to the press. And even though Jaime wasn’t exactly pleased to spend his favourite holiday with Stannis Baratheon, he knew that meant he would at least get to spend it with Cersei. It would be their first Christmas together, as  _ brother and sister _ , upon her insistence.

The bedrooms had been prepared for the guests. Cersei and Robert would sleep in one bedroom, Jaime had made sure it would be the one on the opposite end of the corridor. He’d hate to celebrate Christmas Eve by listening to Robert fucking his sister. They would be hosting Stannis and Selyse Baratheon in one room, Uncle Kevan and his wife in another. Aunt Genna and her husband had insisted upon sleeping in Tywin’s old room, which Jaime had found creepy. Renly Baratheon had kindly declined the invitation; according to Cersei it was because he was spending it with the Tyrell family. Their cousin Lancel would be around as well, to Jaime’s annoyance, as the boy had always been half obsessed with him.

Most guests’ arrival was expected in the afternoon of December 24 th .

Jaime felt nervous, for more than one reason. First off, it was the first time Cersei would meet the rest of their family. One might say there had been plenty of occasions for them to meet, but part of Jaime had fought to keep her to himself. But the time was ripe and he was bound to share her with the rest of them sooner or later. Might as well do it during Christmas. He knew Kevan wouldn’t like her; Kevan didn’t like women much in general, he hardly liked his own wife. Aunt Genna was… difficult, still Jaime could see some similarities in the two women. It could go either way: they might hit it off or it could be a tragedy.

Then there was Tyrion. Even since the accident, he’d kept to himself mostly. Jaime was under the impression something must have happened between Tyrion and Cersei while he was passed out. He hadn’t had the courage to ask, nor had Tyrion seemed in a talkative mood since… well, weeks. He would have to take care of that, but he secretly hoped Christmas might help in that sense.

Of course, Cersei was his primary concern. How to deal with her? In the past few days he’d done his best to respect her wishes, keeping mostly to himself. She came around often to check on him.

It had been three weeks now since the accident. He had gotten rid of the chair but was still forced to use crutches. He grew stronger by the day. His wrist had healed, mostly. His leg would still need a little time, but it hurt less and less; the cast had been replaced by tight bandages that covered the whole leg. The bandages on his hand had come off, and the wounds had mostly healed as well. The doctor told him he might have a scar or two, but small, nothing that would ruin his bachelor reputation. _ It may add to it, even _ , he had said. Still, Jaime wouldn’t be able to don the Santa outfit this time around; lucky enough there wouldn’t be any children. Joy, Martyn and Willem would spend it elsewhere, with their parents, and Stannis had made sure to warn him that his daughter no longer believed in Santa Claus.

Cersei herself kept her distance, and he knew why. It was difficult to keep her own promises when they were based on a lie. She’d told him she did not feel anything, but he knew that was not the case. He felt it whenever she was around, in the same room. A spark, a peculiar energy.  _ Electricity _ . They felt naturally drawn to each other. Yet she resisted. He had no idea how she managed. It was a living nightmare for him. Where did that strength come from?

Hidden deep inside him, the beast she’d awoken waited for a sign, hoped for a show of weakness to pounce. If only she’d let him, he could…  _ What could you do, Jaime? _ The voice in his head sounded like his father.  _ She is still your sister, have you forgotten? _

He could never forget that. She wouldn’t let him.

 

* * *

Aunt Genna was, as expected, the first to get there, followed by her meek husband, Eamon Frey. He spoke little and did even less. Aunt Genna referred to him as a paperweight whenever he wasn’t in the room, and Jaime couldn’t disagree.

“Where is she?” Genna asked the moment she’d dropped her bags in the arms of one of the housemaids.

Jaime was caught off guard. “Cersei’s not here yet.”

“Ah, bollocks,” she pouted before heading upstairs without as much as a second glance, the  _ paperweight _ in tow.

Uncle Kevan and Aunt Dorna were more polite. Jaime preferred Genna: she was direct, wore her heart on a sleeve and never ever minced her words. Dorna was as fake as they came, and Kevan too. Lancel wore a silly suit, way too serious for a boy his age, but Jaime knew it must have been his mother’s idea.  _ Always look the part _ .

They all got showed to their bedrooms and for half an hour the house was peaceful. Upstairs, as they all got settled in, Jaime could close his eyes and pretend it was just him and the many ghosts that haunted the Rock. It would be a while before they all came back downstairs; it was a masquerade, as most social gatherings were, so everyone needed time to put on their façades. Jaime knew he could count on Genna to keep it real, and that was as frightening as it was reassuring. But the rest of them? Lannisters were actors, liars.

And Cersei might just be the best of them.

The sun had begun to set, and they were all settled in the big saloon. The flames were crackling in the fireplace. Kevan had trapped him in a seemingly endless conversation about Lannister Ltd and Jaime’s responsibility as the new head of the company, not to mention a problem with the Starks in the North. Genna and Tyrion were talking animatedly by the window; he would have loved to hear what they were saying, because Tyrion seemed quite agitated.

Lancel was sitting next to his mother. Neither seemed to be having much fun. In fact, Jaime knew Lancel was only waiting for the right excuse to talk to him. He was set on not giving him one, so he’d rather stand there and listen to Kevan’s ramblings, even encourage them.

“Sir, the Prime Minister has arrived,” came the butler’s thundering announcement.

Genna clapped. “At last!”

Their aunt was too eager, it made Jaime uncomfortable. He didn’t want Cersei to be thrust into the spotlight: they would question and search her intentions. It was loathsome but some would say necessary for a family like theirs. Kevan, on the other hand, was uncomfortably shifting on his feet and looking down into the bottom of his glass. Cersei was living proof of Tywin’s dishonesty, and Kevan couldn’t face that; his older brother had always been a paradigm to live by for the younger Lannister, and coping with learning he too was capable of errors mustn’t be easy.

Jaime hurried outside the room to meet the new guests. He saw her before he saw anyone else, as he was used to by now. Her hair up in a tight ponytail, her body clad in green, clinging, her nails lacquered the same deep shade of green. Not even Robert, Stannis or plain Selyse could ruin that sight for him.

“Robert,” he welcomed his brother-in-law.

“This place,” Robert said, gesturing to his surroundings, “it never gets any less beautiful.”

“I’m hoping we’ll wake up to a very white Christmas,” Jaime continued with the pleasantries, knowing how false they all were. “Then you’ll see how beautiful it can really be.” His eyes landed on his sister as he said this.

“How’s the leg?” Selyse asked.

Jaime was particularly bothered by the acknowledgement of his hindrance. He would rather not show weakness in front of Robert and Stannis. “Much better,” he said, offering a huge smile. “The doctor said I’m making a speedy recovery.” Before anyone had a chance to further comment, he continued: “Everyone is waiting for you.”

Robert, Stannis and Selyse were showed to the main saloon, while Jaime and Cersei remained behind. They were silent for a short while, listening to the sounds coming from the adjacent room. Robert’s voice was louder than any of the others. Then they focused on each other.

“I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he tried to reassure her.

“They hate me, don’t they?”

Her concern amused him. So far he had never seen his sister fear anyone’s judgement. He also knew she craved to be loved. “They don’t,” he said, affectionate. “How could anyone hate you?”

Cersei’s eyebrows shot up and Jaime laughed. He kissed her forehead, unable to resist contact, something primal and necessary. “And if they don’t like you then fuck them, you got me.” Jaime cursed the crutches; he wanted to grab her hand. He usually found it so incredibly easy to lead her, so natural to have her by his side. He might hold her hand and never let her go.

It was unfair he was not allowed to.

Introductions went smoother than Jaime would have anticipated. Kevan was polite, and even Genna shook Cersei’s hand and kissed her new-found niece’s cheek. Jaime, who knew her well, saw a glint in her eyes though and knew the storm was far from passed. His aunt was merely waiting for the right moment to fire her shot. Lancel seemed awestruck at his young age; Jaime had to wonder if he’d ever seen a woman quite as beautiful, or if it was the resemblance with Jaime that got to him.

Cersei moved with grace, shook hands, spoke softly. Jaime couldn’t help but resent the mask, he who had gotten to know her real nature. He loved her hard and unkind, loved her straightforward and ruthless.

He loved her wild. He loved her  _ wildly _ .

 

* * *

Jaime took his place at the head of the table. It was bizarre, that had always been Tywin’s seat. Kevan didn’t like it much. Perhaps he would have preferred to take his brother’s seat. Tyrion had mentioned, shortly after Tywin’s passing, that their uncle wouldn’t take kindly to being skipped altogether in the line of succession at Lannister Ltd. Even though the older man had hardly ever shown rancor, Jaime couldn’t help but feel his stare every time he entered Tywin’s office or occupied Tywin’s chair. Today was no exception. It was the first Christmas without Tywin. It would take some getting used to the change.

Throughout dinner, he studied his guests. Stannis was very quiet, glaring down the table. Jaime knew there was no ounce of Lannister blood he did not find filthy and immoral. Every now and then his wife would try and rope him into a conversation with Dorna Swyft, with little success. Robert and Genna were boisterous and loud, often at odds but somewhat finding a challenge in each other. Tyrion was entertaining Lancel, telling him dirty jokes in a low voice; whenever Kevan caught a whisper of it, he’d put on a shocked expression and intimate Tyrion to stop it with his foolery.

Cersei was looking at him. Mostly. As inconspicuous as she could manage, she’d often steal glances over the rim of her glass. He liked to play hard to get, usually, but not with her. He openly returned her stares, let the others watch and ask themselves what it was all about. The thrill of it was exciting.

Dessert was served around 9.30 pm: mango sherbet peppered with a hint of cinnamon. Jaime was focusing on Cersei’s lips closing around the spoon, his mind racing with thoughts of the same ice cream melting on her tongue, when Genna decided it was time to talk about the elephant in the room.

“So, Cersei. Any idea why my brother would have kept you hidden all these years?”

For a few seconds the only noise was that of metal scraping against the glass as everyone ate their sherbet awkwardly. Around the table, the only ones who’d kept their heads high were Genna herself, Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion. Tyrion was the one to try and break the tension. “Well clearly it must have been to be sure you never got your claws in, aunt Genna.”

“Ha, funny. But really?” Genna didn’t bite. “It’s curious, isn’t it?”

Jaime’s sherbet was melting in his glass. “Cersei is the oldest. She would have stood to inherit the title, and you know what father was like, he would never –“

“Don’t be daft, Jaime,” Genna said, patronizing. It unnerved him, he didn’t like her to talk to him like that, especially not in front of Cersei. It was humiliating, to be treated like a child. It was also Genna’s favourite hobby.  She pressed on: “First of all, women don’t inherit titles. Secondly, even if Joanna had somehow insisted… Do you really think your father wouldn’t have had your birth certificates modified? He could have easily made it look like you were the eldest. He was one of the richest men alive, Jaime. Don’t underestimate gold.”

Jaime was seething. He sought Cersei’s comprehension, but she was enthralled with what Genna was suggesting. So far they’d thought that would be the only plausible reason for Tywin to give Cersei away. But it seemed Genna was debunking that theory, creating a void of motive once more. Jaime didn’t want Cersei to lose sleep on it, it was a waste of time. Tywin was dead, she’d been found. Who cared why their father had done what he’d done?

“Kevan, you’re awfully quiet,” Genna continued, glancing at her own brother.

Jaime couldn’t help but notice Kevan’s expression was… odd. He was looking down, stubbornly, in what could only be described as an attempt at diverting the conversation.

“I find it hateful to talk about people who cannot defend themselves.” Kevan’s excuse was half-assed and embarrassingly false. “My brother is dead. We might never know why he did what he did, and some may not agree, but we’re all here because of him. We should be thankful.”

Genna scanned her brother’s face. Then her eyes widened slightly, and her lips curved in a knowing smile. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you? Oh, Kevan.”

Cersei was watching Kevan, and Jaime had never seen her more hungry for that hidden knowledge. She craved the truth, craved vengeance for her treatment. If his sister had fangs, they would be at their uncle’s throat already.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Kevan said finally, standing up. “Excuse me.” The legs of the chair scraped the hardwood floor and he left the room without another word. Aunt Genna had never looked more self-satisfied than she did in that moment, content with having exposed Kevan and Tywin’s lie. Still the truth had been swept under the carpet and Jaime felt uneasy.

What on Earth could they be hiding?

“Any of the gentlemen interested in a nightcap?” Tyrion tried to diffuse, once again. Robert stood up, eagerly accepting the offer to escape the awkwardness. Stannis did the same. Selyse excused herself, mentioned something about calling the nanny to have updates on her daughter, stuck at home with a cold. Lancel followed Tyrion after promising his mother he wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol; Tyrion winked and pulled the boy with him. Dorna went looking for Kevan, apologizing profusely for her husband’s behaviour and pulling the grief card.  _ He’s not been the same after Tywin’s death. _

Jaime and Cersei remained seated. Neither had finished their sherbet. Cersei’s face was hard, he could almost hear the cogs in her brain turning. Genna too had refused to stand, but placed both feet on the chair left vacant by her useless husband.

“Oh honey,” she said, noticing Cersei’s upset. “You are just one of my brother’s many victims. Tywin just never cared whose feet he stepped on, when it came to protecting his own.”

Cersei looked up. Her smile was a snarl. Jaime was ready to jump in if needed be. Genna was used to people cowering, and missing that, just letting her have her way to avoid  _ hearing her _ . Cersei was not like the rest of them, Jaime knew. Judging by Genna’s enthralled expression, so did she.

His sister stood up, slowly, the curve of her lips unfaltering.  _ Is she going to yell? _ Jaime was sure he must be witnessing a clash of titans. It was just a matter of moments. Cersei and Genna were closer in age than it seemed. Genna being the youngest Lannister sister, was only 57. Jaime eyed the room: if they went for each other’s throats, what could he do in his state? He could barely stand on his own.

But nothing happened. Cersei turned her back on Genna, and on Jaime, and left the room, hips swaying with purpose, head held high.

Jaime bit his bottom lip. Genna would be seething at that. She had tried her hardest to unsettle her niece, hoping Cersei would lose her temper to test her, judge her, scold her if possible. Genna liked reprimanding people more than anything. By leaving, Cersei had not only not given her the satisfaction, she had made a statement: that she was above Genna, and that Genna wasn’t worth her time.

If Jaime knew his aunt half as much as he thought he did, there would be consequences to her defiance.

 

* * *

Jaime joined the other men in Tywin’s study. Tyrion had already opened the liquor cabinet and poured them all generous glasses. Robert had drank quite a lot throughout dinner as well, so it was no surprise that his cheeks were red and his voice too loud for Jaime’s taste. It made him wonder if he’d seek out Cersei that night, to claim what he’d bought the day he’d married her.

He couldn’t save her, not from that, because she didn’t want to be saved. She’d hate him if he’d raised a finger on Robert.

They lingered well into the night, the grandfather clock struck midnight and well past that as well. Stannis was the first one to excuse himself and go upstairs, where his wife must be sleeping already. Eamon Frey, the paperweight, left shortly after. Tyrion, Robert and Jaime remained a while longer. Robert and Tyrion did most of the talking – Robert did, and Tyrion was the only one replying to him because Jaime would rather gauge his eyes out than engage.

Around 3 a.m. Robert was drunk enough that he could no longer stay awake, and decided it was time to go to bed. Jaime watched him walk upstairs, unsteady, hand gripping the banister quite harshly to keep upright. He thought he looked way more dignified, crutches and all, than that man did on any given day.

“Charming,” Tyrion whispered ironically, voicing his own thoughts.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping the last of their scotch. The things unsaid between them did not find any room then. Jaime was tired, and the whole thing had been a catastrophe. Around 3.30 am they realized it was late, and his eyelids were getting heavy. Tyrion offered to help him get into bed, but Jaime declined. He was getting good at this, and he hated needing help. He limped down the hall, feeling Tyrion’s stare linger on his back until he was safe into his new bedroom. Joanna’s study was warm, and he’d begun to like the sensation much more than his old bedroom upstairs. It felt… reassuring. A cocoon where he could feel his mother’s presence in spite of her absence.

He noticed the sliver of light that came from underneath the private bathroom’s door, and questioned if he might have left it on earlier. But a thought seeped into his brain… And then he caught a whiff of her perfume.

Jaime pushed the door open and was not surprised to see her there.

“The bathroom upstairs wasn’t to your liking?”

He took a moment to admire the view. She’d undressed, taken off the encumbering dress she’d worn that evening, replaced it with a silky black nightgown that was… way too short to be circumstantial. She was still in the middle of her night routine, with a ball of fluffy cotton in her hand, she was wiping off her make-up. She looked gorgeous without, albeit tired. And sadder. “You don’t need all that shit,” he mentioned.

She smiled, put the cotton down to splash some water on. “You only say that because you want to fuck me.” Truth be told, he was surprised. She had never been that straightforward about their present ordeal. With a glance into the mirror, she noticed his discomfort. “What, you can say it but I can’t?”

He shifted his weight from one crutch to the other, then back to the other one. His eyes fell on the half empty glass of wine by the sink. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, this hasn’t exactly been the best Christmas for me so far.” She picked up the glass, took another sip and turned around. “So yes, I’ve been drinking.” Jaime noticed it wasn’t a nightgown, but a robe, kept close in the middle by a loose knot. It would have been so easy to undo it.

Jaime nodded. He couldn’t blame her, dinner had been harsh, no matter how graciously she’d handled it. He himself felt unsettled by Genna’s insinuations. Of course, every word she’d said was true, and their theories were thoroughly disproved by the people who knew their father best. But if that wasn’t the case, they were back to square one, no idea of why Tywin had given Cersei up but kept her within his reach. It sounded like there must be some master plan behind it, but they couldn’t grasp it.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jaime pressed on. “Why are you here?”

“You invited us,” she replied with a small smile.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Cersei batted her eyelashes. “I know.” Her smile fell, she took on a more serious expression. Her eyes were lucid, Jaime knew that must be the wine she’d drunk. Given the hours between the abrupt end of dinner – around the time she’d disappeared upstairs – and now, she’d had quite a few hours to drink. He couldn’t say exactly how much, but he’d wager enough to be dangerous.

“Robert went to bed,” she whispered with a voice so soft it felt like velvet caressing his ears. “And I didn’t want to sleep next to him.” She paused, Jaime didn’t chime in. There was something weighing on her chest, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she said it. That was the reason she was there, with him. “Do you like it?” she asked, touching the lacy hem of her robe.

“You look like a pricey prostitute.”

Cersei put the glass down and took a step forward. “You don’t really think that.”

Jaime swallowed. He didn’t. “I think you’re a little girl who likes to play with fire a bit too much.”

That didn’t stop her. In fact there was a renewed sway in her hips. Jaime had never seen her like this, determined. It had always been him pursuing her, unknowingly. He had never stopped to guess what it would be like, being seduced by her. How difficult it would be to resist. Bless the crutches: if he’d been steady on his legs he might have her bent over the sink already.

Her fingers toyed with the sash that kept the robe closed around her waist. He did nothing to hide his attention travelling down her cleavage. The swell of her breasts looked plump, inviting. He desperately wanted to know what it would feel like to touch it, have it fill up his palms.

His cock demanded satisfaction. It had been too long since –

It happened in a split second. The knot came undone, the robe fell open and Cersei shrugged it off her back. It pooled around her feet. She was a statue. White marble clad in black lace. He could see most of her, and what he couldn’t see he could very well picture.

_ Mercy. _

It was difficult to tear his eyes from what she offered, but he did it all the same. He returned to the green of her emeralds, hard. “You’re drunk.”

“So what?” She moved, at last, drawing closer to him, close enough that he could smell something stronger than her perfume. She showed her teeth.

He caught her wrist before she could touch the front of his pants. In doing that, the left crutch fell with a loud thud. He shifted the whole of his weight on the other one, wincing in pain.

His eyes bore into hers. There was a storm raging inside her, and it had nothing to do with him. This wouldn’t be fair. This wouldn’t be right.

“You’re going to be sober the first time I fuck you,” he growled. Cersei retreated her hand harshly, like he’d burnt her. “Cover yourself.” She was breathing hard, her lips pursed in a firm line. She didn’t even help him pick up his crutch, which he did with his good leg.

He limped away without sparing a second glance in her direction. Back into the room he sat on the edge of his king sized bed, his back to the bathroom. The bedside lamp cast a nice glow; he switched it off in an attempt to give her the privacy of escape. She would feel hurt, offended, outraged. She would thank him in the morning: after all, she’d been the one begging him to stop this.

He only knew she was gone when he heard her slamming his bedroom door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION: 
> 
> On the bed, under the sheet, he saw a shape stir. A shape that was too big to be his brother alone. Jaime froze. It couldn’t be. His legs refused to move further, and he heard Tyrion’s growl as he came to. His brain was working furiously. Rage threatened to overpower him. He recognized the lean shape of a woman’s leg, the long limbs stretching under the white silk.
> 
> “Jaime?” Tyrion groaned. “What do you want?” Jaime took a step further, eyes trained on the mass of blonde hair that covered the woman’s face. “Jaime?” Tyrion insisted.
> 
> The woman stirred and rolled on her back.


	16. baby it's cold outside - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you gorgeous rays of sunshine! It's that time of the week again! I like to call this chapter "the calm before the storm", and you'll see why next week. I do believe we're entering a more thrilling part of the story, which I hope you will enjoy half as much as I enjoyed coming up with it and writing it!  
> Without further ado, dive in and I'll see you at the end for a small preview of the next chapter!  
> f.

The first thought upon opening his eyes the following morning was he hated her for ruining Christmas for him. Jaime stared at the canopy, thinking back on the events of the night before. It had taken a huge amount of self-control, an amount he frankly had no idea he possessed. He had never rejected anyone, he had never cared if they were drunk, or sad because their boyfriends had left, or naïve and stupidly in love with his money. He’d fucked all of them as long as they were easy on the eye. He’d fucked blondes, redheads, brunettes, short hair, long hair, tall, short, thin, chubby, English, foreign. He’d fucked everything he could get his hands on, to be fair. He had never said no.

Until last night.

Never, in a million years, would he have thought he would reject someone. Even worse, he never would have guessed that someone would be the one person he wanted most. And that it would be his biological sister. Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.

He did not regret his choice. If he’d caved in, she would hate him the next day. If he’d surrendered to his instincts the night before, she would only have an excuse to run the morning after. Yet she’d offered him a feast, and he was only a man after all. Ignoring his erection had been impossible, not when she kept dancing behind his eyelids.

He was in a shit mood. The crutches were leaning against the wall, at the side of the bed. He regarded them with some disdain, like he could blame them for his misfortune. He’d grown weary of his limited range of action, weary of the physical weakness that did not match the vigour of his mind. He wanted to run, to jump on a horse and launch it in a gallop. He wanted to do something other than sit around and ruminate, he needed to distract himself from Cersei’s onslaught.

He glanced outside the window; something caught his attention. He rolled over, sat up with a grunt and grabbed the crutches. The carpet was warm and fuzzy under his feet; he got up, leaning onto the crutches, and padded across the room, hardly making any noise at all. He peeked the inch visible through the drawn curtains and a smile crept upon him. With one crutch he pushed the curtain aside. A snow storm was raging outside, the lawn was covered in snow already. It must have snowed all through the night. In the far distance he could see the stables covered in snow, and the tennis field, and everywhere the eye could reach was white and pure.

It gave him an instant boost of Christmas spirit. He went out the door, limping as quickly as he could to another bedroom. He didn’t bother knocking, but pushed the door open with his crutch.

“Tyrion!” he said out loud, stepping in. The room was cast in darkness, clothes were scattered all over the floor. Jaime walked more carefully amidst his brother’s mess, careful not to stumble. “Tyrion, wake up,” he said again, “It’s snowing!”

On the bed, under the sheet, he saw a shape stir. A shape that was too big to be his brother alone. Jaime froze. It couldn’t be. His legs refused to move further, and he heard Tyrion’s growl as he came to. His brain was working furiously. Rage threatened to overpower him. He recognized the lean shape of a woman’s leg, the long limbs stretching under the white silk.

“Jaime?” Tyrion groaned. “What do you want?” Jaime took a step further, eyes trained on the mass of blonde hair that covered the woman’s face. “Jaime?” Tyrion insisted.

The woman stirred and rolled on her back. Jaime saw her face, at last and…

It wasn’t Cersei.

Oxygen filled his lungs once more, blood returned to his brain. His heartbeat slowed down, returned to normal. He leant against the nightstand, swallowing the bitter scare. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and realized the girl’s blonde hair wasn’t like Cersei’s at all, it was more honey than spun gold, and a few inches shorter than his sister’s. Her eyes, still sleepy, were hazelnut.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tyrion commented.

Jaime shook his head, “I just-” he began but he decided he couldn’t tell his brother the truth. Ever. “I can’t believe how messy you are,” he gestured to the clothes littering the ground. He noticed a red thong which, he wagered, must belong to his brother’s guest.

“Honey, have you met my brother?” Tyrion asked, nudging the girl in the ribs. The girl looked over and returned to sleep.

Jaime was confused. “When?” he mouthed.

Tyrion shrugged. “Booty call,” he mouthed back.

Jaime chuckled. He made a mental note to tell Tyrion the girl would have to sneak out back before the rest of the family woke up, else he would have to deal with Kevan’s sour grimace for the whole of lunch. Not to mention Genna’s snickering. On second thought, that might offer the perfect distraction from the conversation of the previous night.

“Tyrion, it’s  _ snowing, _ ” Jaime said, going to the window and opening the curtains one at a time. He spun around as fast as his leg permitted him. “You know what that means?” He spun elated, filled with childlike wonder.

Tyrion’s face lit up as well. He sat up with glee.

Together, they yelled in unison: “LANN THE CLEVER!”

 

* * *

The round, icy head of the snowman was giving them some trouble. The snow was fresh, it was difficult to make it stick together.

The storm had died down around midday. Tyrion had called for a cab for his nightly companion. Unfortunately, he had met Stannis downstairs, who had just returned from a walk around the grounds. “I’m a morning person,” Robert’s brother had explained, eyeing the girl who followed Tyrion.

“So am I,” Tyrion said, meaning something else entirely.

While Tyrion took care of  _ that _ , Jaime had taken a shower – could it still be called a shower if you were forced to keep a plastic cover over one leg? It would be harder to walk around in the snow but he had decided he would try and  _ succeed _ because traditions were important.

The manor was alive. These days, no matter how big Casterly Rock was, it seemed you couldn’t walk somewhere without stumbling into one of the guests. Uncle Kevan had locked himself in Tywin’s study the whole morning. Aunt Genna was taking a long bath in the master bathroom. Robert was in the kitchen, pestering the helping girls. Stannis had taken permanent residence in Tywin’s library, although Jaime was sure it was just so he could avoid all other Lannisters. Selyse and Dorna were chattering on the patio, drinking tea and exchanging gossip. Lancel was in the stables, after Jaime had told him to go help the men clear out the place from the snow and put blankets over the horses’ backs. The paperweight, Uncle Eamon, had timidly asked if he could play the piano in the dining room. “Genna never lets me play the one in our house,” he had told Jaime, who felt pity for his uncle for the first time in his life.

On the grounds, Tyrion had done most of the work gathering the snow for the snowman’s body. Jaime couldn’t exactly do that, not with his crutches. In fact, his uncle had tried to tell him not to go in the snow at all, to avoid dangerous, slippery ground. Jaime hadn’t even taken that possibility into consideration. He had, however, accepted to be brought out on his wheelchair; as much as he hated it, that would allow him to have his hands free to model the snow.

“I haven’t seen Cersei all morning,” said Tyrion, out of the blue. Jaime glanced in his direction, but his little brother was stubbornly working on the head of the snowman. “Did Genna frighten her?”

“It takes a lot more than that to frighten our sister,” Jaime said, shooting a look towards the house, wondering where Cersei was hiding. “She was angry, mostly. You know she doesn’t like it when things don’t go her way.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Tyrion disagreed. “I don’t seem to know her as well as you.” Tyrion looked up. “Must be a twin thing.”

Jaime fell silent, dealing with Tyrion’s unsaid implications. It was time to face it, else it would erode their relationship and he didn’t like that prospect. He had always trusted Tyrion, and Tyrion had always trusted Jaime. Cersei’s entrance did not threaten that: it was a whole different level. Tyrion couldn’t possibly know just  _ how _ different.

“Something happened between you two, while I was out.” Jaime didn’t ask, it was a statement. He didn’t need a confirmation, he needed a goddamn reason.

Tyrion snorted. “You almost died, Jaime. Of course something happened.”

“I was drunk, and I got in that car. You can’t fault Cersei for that.”

“Can’t I?” Tyrion abandoned the snowman’s head for the first time. “Ever since she… She’s a bad influence, on you. You’ve not been yourself for months.”

“Oh, come on,” Jaime complained, shaking his head with vigour. “I’m reckless. You know me.”

“You disappeared for months. You hopped on a plane and you went to  _ India _ , for Christ’s sake.” Tyrion paused, and Jaime didn’t speak because there was no plausible explanation for what he’d done. His brother was smart, that was his curse: to know things before most people, to understand and draw his own conclusions. That gift was especially dangerous, given the extent of what Jaime had kept hidden. Confronted with his silence, Tyrion pressed on. “Is this about Lannister Ltd.? Is she giving you a hard time about that? Is she blackmailing you?”

“No, no,  _ no. _ ” Jaime couldn’t believe the assumption. “It’s not about that at all. It’s just… we’ve been dealing with… stuff. It’s not easy to just… accept a new person in your life and she… with Robert, and the press… She’s under a lot of stress and I’m… after dad’s passing-”

“Jaime, don’t insult my intelligence, this is not about dad and we both know that.”

Jaime swallowed. “It’s nothing.”

“Jaime-”

“I said: it’s nothing.”

“I’m terrified to ask but-”

“Tyrion.”

“Are you in l-”

“SHUT UP!” He yelled out, deep and final. Tyrion jumped at the volume, even took a step back. The snowman had been forgotten. He looked hurt. “Just, shut up. Stop pestering me. I know what I’m doing. God, you’re just like Father.” That was the last nail in the coffin. Tyrion clapped his hands together, brushing the snow off his padded gloves. Jaime thought he had never looked smaller than in that moment.

“Is this a bad time?”

Cersei’s voice came at the worst possible moment. Jaime didn’t even turn around to acknowledge her presence, Tyrion’s face was trained on his, defiant. “It’s a perfect time,” Tyrion replied, bitter. “I got the answer I wanted.” He walked away, the snowman’s head forgotten at Jaime’s feet, a sad, melting memory of what their lives used to be.

Jaime remained silent, rigid in his seat. Cersei came into view, and it moved something inside him: she looked small in her coat, her thin neck covered in a long black, woollen scarf. She’d pushed a beret on her head, and her cheeks were bright red, as was the tip of her nose. She looked like porcelain, emeralds engraved. She was hugging herself, awkward in her stance while she looked down at her feet.

“Are you going to take off that coat and show me your tits?” Jaime asked, harsher than he’d meant to be. Cersei looked up, and he swore he could see the same hurt on her face which he’d seen painted on Tyrion’s mere seconds before. “Sorry.  _ Sorry _ . I just… Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Cersei took a deep breath and came closer. “What is that?” she asked, looking at the mound of snow that Tyrion had gathered.

“That’s Lann the Clever,” Jaime tried. Cersei lifted an eyebrow, questioning. “It’s a thing Tyrion and I do on Christmas morning. It’s a snowman. We call him Lann the Clever.”

“Well, why is it headless?” Cersei crouched down, started gathering some more snow, and began by making a small snowball and placing it over the snowman’s body. As she added more snow, the ball grew progressively larger until it was the size of a polo ball. Halfway, she turned to Jaime. “Are you just going to stand there and look at me?”

Jaime shook himself out of his trance, bent over the edge of the chair and picked up some snow. Slowly, the more snow they picked and placed over the mound, the larger Lann’s head grew. Every now and then he tried to sneak a peek at her face, but she looked focused on the task at hand. She had a way of licking her lips and sticking her tongue out when she was deep in thought, or dedicated to what she was doing. She looked like half a child. Even though this wasn’t her place – by all means, it should have been Tyrion out there, with him – Jaime couldn’t say he hated doing this with her.

It took them a few minutes to get it to be the right size, but eventually they managed. Jaime reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of big, green buttons. Cersei smiled at the details, as Jaime gave Lann his eyes. He let her thrust the carrot in the snow, and she gave Lann his nose.

“It needs a hat?” Cersei asked, but Jaime shook his head. He rummaged into the plastic bag hanging on the side of his wheelchair, got a blonde wig out and showed it to Cersei. “Really?” Jaime nodded. Cersei shrugged and placed the wig over the snowman’s head. “He looks like a handsome fella.” She took a step back, like something was amiss. Then she took off her scarf and put it around the snowman.

“It’s going to get wet,” Jaime told her, as she fixed the wool.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” Cersei said, hardly sparing a second thought. “I have more.” The smile on her face… he wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

They both didn’t speak for a while, watching Lann like he might have some answers for their situation. As smart as Lann might be, he didn’t offer a solution. “Would you wheel me back inside, please?” Jaime asked finally. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Cersei nodded, walked behind the chair and pushed strong enough to get the chair moving over the snow. The first few meters were the hardest, then the ground got harder and the wheels rolled with ease. When they reached the few steps that lead to the patio, Jaime motioned to his crutches, leaning against the banister. Cersei got them for him, and he stood up. They left the chair there, someone would come fetch it surely.

He refused Cersei’s help in going up the stairs, but she was always just half a step behind him, ready to help him if he needed her. As soon as they were inside they were welcomed by the warmth, and Cersei shook off her coat. Underneath she wore a black pleated skirt and a green sweater with a large neck. He shouldn’t take notice of how she dressed, but he did all the same.

“Where are we going?” she asked, curious.

“Upstairs.”

More stairs, they walked up, Cersei always close by. The events of the night before hung between them, yet she was responding so very differently from the last time. She wasn’t running, instead she was seeking his proximity. She wasn’t provocative, she wasn’t seductive. She was his sister.

He loved her all the same.

They passed by his bedroom, and Tyrion’s. They kept walking down the corridor, reached the end and took a turn left. The tall windows of the manor’s wing let the sun in, inundating the whole place. Another corner, a different wing of the house. He led her across yet another corridor.

“Jaime where-”

“Almost there,” he interrupted her.

They walked a little further, reached a door. He found a key in his pocket and opened the room. Cersei pushed the doors open, and stepped over the threshold. Jaime waited, letting her be the only one in the room for a little while.

Her little steps were hesitant, heels clicking on the dark hardwood floor. She looked around, spinning around ever so slowly. Jaime noticed her mouth agape, her eyes glistening. She looked up, swallowed. “Is this…?” She couldn’t say it.

Jaime stepped in. It had taken him months to get it done just right: most of the furniture had been shipped from overseas. The bed especially, he’d ordered it from a little shop in South Africa: each wooden bedpost had been carved by hand following his strict directions. Most of the furniture was elegant dark oak, while the upholstery counted various shades of deep, velvety red. He’d bought the curtains over his stay in India. In one corner he’d set up a vanity he’d bought in Paris, and a full-length mirror he’d bought from a local artisan in Florence.

“Your bedroom,” he finished the sentence for her.

Cersei watched him for what felt like ages. “When did you do this?”

“I started renovations on this wing the day after I met you.” Jaime remembered that day like it was yesterday. The fear of the unknown, the terror after he’d met her. The thrill, the sudden surge of affection. The stirring in his stomach when the moment he’d known he would do anything for her. It had all happened the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. “It’s a big house for just two people. Do you like it?”

Cersei nodded, clearly at a loss for words, but for Jaime it was enough.

“I’m no fool, I know you won’t just… move in, or anything. But I want you to remember this is your home as well. And if it ever gets too much with…” Jaime didn’t feel like saying his name out loud, “I want you to know you have a place to hide.”

She moved inside the room with the grace and elegance of a ballerina, tiptoeing amidst the furniture she did not pick, in a room she did not know was hers. Her fingers danced across the duvet, the wooden surfaces. Jaime could see the wonder on her face and it was a sight to behold: had no one ever showed her such devotion? Had she ever been loved,  _ truly _ loved, at all?

Then she returned to him, after taking in the whole of her surroundings. She returned to him with confusion weighing on her shoulders. Still, she returned to him. “Thank you,” she murmured. She sneaked her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. He wanted to hurl the crutches against the wall and hold her tighter even. He couldn’t. All he could do was lower his chin just enough to let it rest on the top of her head, and close his eyes to relish the warmth.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. Her hair tickled his lips. She pulled back to look up. Her lips parted, surprised; like she’d forgotten why they were there, and what day it was. Then she huffed. “What?”

“Well, this puts my present to shame.” Cersei was pouting now, and it made him laugh. The irony didn’t escape him: every time she acted childish, or capricious, he could have a glimpse of what had been taken from him. And that was when he liked her most. If he saw the child, he could protect her. If he managed to know the little girl, he could have her back.

“You got me a present?”

“Of course I got you a present, I’m not a heathen,” she complained, disentangling herself from the embrace. If his arms had been around her he would have kept her there, he wouldn’t have let her take a step back.

Cersei was struggling, which Jaime found oddly endearing. In fact, he found it endearing to see her uncomfortable when things didn’t go her way. She was such a control freak; she could use a lesson or two.

“Well, give it to me then,” he pressed.

 

* * *

She led him across the lawn and into the stables. Jaime liked presents, big child that he was, and he liked it even more when they were big enough that they needed a whole barn. He had made a mental list of all the things she could have gotten him: a new motorbike, he would have liked that; a car, he had four of those but it was never enough, and he  _ had _ recently reduced that number to three after all; a new television, one of those huge ones, to replace Tywin’s old screen in the movie room.

The large door was heavy, too heavy for her to slide it open on her own and under normal circumstances he would offer to do it for her. Cersei struggled with it, and it was funny to watch: eventually she managed.

Right away, he heard the stamping, which gave him pause. Television screens didn’t stamp, no matter how large they were.  _ The horses? _

“Come,” she beckoned.

He limped inside, his crutches hitting the concrete floor repeatedly. As they walked down the large corridor in between boxes, the horses came up to greet them. Cersei’s hand grazed their muzzles, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was still following.

“Almost there,” she continued, turning the corner at the end of the corridor, where the showers were.

“Couldn’t you just hide it in the attic?” Jaime asked, turning the corner. That was when he saw it. “Oh. Of course.”

It was a wonderful specimen. Its coat shone black, as did the long hair that ran down its thick neck. Its eyes were black pools, big and round, lively. With its head held high, it was quite a few inches taller than Jaime himself: a four-legged giant, the most elegant horse Jaime had ever seen.

Cersei patted the animal’s neck. Jaime couldn’t help noticing the contrast: she was small, white skin, blonde hair, delicate. Standing next to the horse, she looked powerless, but still fierce, like some of the animal’s wildness had rubbed off on her. Or was it the other way around.

“Brightroar,” she said, sliding her tiny hand across the neck, eyes trained on Jaime. “You used to jump, didn’t you? I figured you might want to ride again. You know, as soon as…” she looked at his leg, then turned to the horse.

“How did you know?” Jaime asked, surprised. He had never told her about that.

“Tyrion told me,” she said, simply. “He also said you fell and never went back in the saddle.” She turned to him, offered a smile. “I think you should. Brightroar will help you with that. He’s a good horse.”

Jaime’s heart shrunk. No one had ever told him he should get back in the saddle: in fact, he was sixteen when he’d fallen, and Tywin had encouraged him to stop because it was too dangerous, and not at all worthy of his heir. Tywin never liked to see him covered in mud, hanging around in the stables, making friends with the stable boys. He would have preferred something different: fencing had been an option, but Jaime had hated it since day one. He’d played soccer, but he wasn’t good at it.

He approached the horse, carefully; Brightroar was watching him, he could have sworn it was reading his soul with those dark eyes.  _ Do you like me, big boy? _ Jaime collected both crutches with one hand, and held out a hand. The horse smelled it and its nose trembled. Eventually, he gave Jaime permission to touch him, offering his neck.

“It’s… beautiful,” Jaime said, enthralled with what it meant for him that she was spurring him, encouraging him to do something most people had kept him from all his life. The horse neighed, and Jaime watched in wonderment. It was a spectacle of nature, the most majestic horse he’d ever laid eyes on. “Brightroar, you said?”

Cersei walked over to his side, and nodded. “Lean on me,” she said, noticing his struggles without both crutches. He considered refusing, but eventually he stretched his arm out around her shoulders.

He took advantage of that position to kiss her temple. “Thank you,” he murmured.

She looked up, her eyes had never been clearer than they were there and then, in the winter cold. Jaime felt the urge to kiss her.  _ Wrong _ . But maybe she had the same urge, because he saw her look down at his lips the same way he’d looked down at hers. Her resolve had been weak from the beginning, he’d known.

As if realizing her misstep, she swallowed and smiled, doing her best to change the subject right away. “Tomorrow is Boxing Day.”

Jaime rued her for being stronger than him. “It is.”

They both knew what it meant. Boxing Day at Casterly Rock was more than just a holiday. It was an event. Socialites from all over the country flew in to attend the Boxing Day Ball at the Rock, thrown by the Lannister family every year, like clockwork. Cersei herself had attended just once in her life. When she was young, she often wondered why her father never let his daughters go, in spite being invited every year, an honour many people would do anything for. Now she knew.

“It is your first Boxing Day Ball.”

Jaime shook his head, disentangling himself from her and leaning against both crutches once more. “Oh trust me, it’s not mine. Tyrion’s been taking care of it for the past few months. I believe we’re in for something crazy.” Mentioning Tyrion brought back memories of their earlier fight. He would have to talk to his brother, try and explain before things became too dangerous. Jaime simply couldn’t have Tyrion suspecting anything when it came to Cersei. It was such a precarious situation already without it becoming an overcrowded relationship.

“Who’s your plus one?” Cersei asked.

Jaime thought about Melara Hetherspoon, who’d not called him since that night in Storm’s End, after Robert’s party. She would be rightfully pissed at him; after Cersei had run away from their kiss, he’d been sour and barely spoken to her all night. They fought, and Jaime had left the party early, leaving her there. That had not been polite of him, and certainly not what a gentleman would have done. He’d tried to call the day after, but she had not picked up.

It had been a while now, perhaps she’d find it in her heart to forgive him.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said with a smirk. “I don’t suppose you’re free, are you?” Cersei returned the smirk briefly, then spun on her heels and began to walk away. “I can teach you, by the way,” he called out.

She stopped in her tracks, turning around with a questioning look. “Teach me what?”

Jaime nodded towards Brightroar. “Riding. I’ve been told I’m a good teacher.”

Cersei chuckled. “Oh, Jaime,” she let out a sigh. “I know how to ride.”

_ I bet you do. _

“But can you convince him to go over a 59 inch tall hedge, I wonder?”

“I can make him do anything I want.”

_ I bet you can. _

He let her leave after that, but remained watching the exact spot where she’d been, like he could conjure her once again. Brightroar pushed his head into his back, and Jaime almost lost his balance. Glaring at the animal, Jaime squinted. “Is it that obvious?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> “I’m sure I know him better than you.” Robert’s eyes sparkled with a glint of knowing rage. Cersei pushed him away with both hands, but he came back, more forceful, one hand at her nape and the other at her neck. Cersei became strongly aware that the hairbrush in her hand was her only weapon: ineffective. He leaned in, whispering in her ear: “He’s hiding something from you, my beautiful dumb princess.”


	17. penny in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past comes back to haunt them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! Here we go, a new chapter. This is the first of a few crucial chapters, plot wise. I know most of you enjoy more character-driven ones, but we'll get back to that. A story needs fuel to go on, else it becomes stale and heavy. Hope you can enjoy these little perks as much as I enjoy writing them. Thank you for always coming back, for always commenting and leaving kudos. I would like to take this opportunity to remember everyone to be kind - speculation is always fun, theories even more so, and I enjoy reading each one of yours!   
> Without further ado, let's dive in, and I'll se you at the end for a tiny anticipation from the next chapter - this time around it was very difficult to give you something without ruining a little surprise!  
> Lots of love,   
> f.

It hurt a little. Robert was fucking her from behind, keeping her pinned against the wall, hands covering her breasts and pawing. She knew he did it like this so he wouldn’t have to look at her face and see how unamused she was. She’d stopped faking a long time ago: let him live with his inadequacy. Truth be told, she’d hoped at some point he’d stop altogether. Wishful thinking. He took pleasure taking her like that, knowing he was making her do something she did not want to.

There was a word for it, a word she never uttered out loud, but she knew it perfectly well.

His pace increased, and Cersei knew he was nearing the end of it. She recognized the sounds. His grunting in her ear was unbearable, his breath on her neck even worse. She wanted to push him off her, but that would only make the agony last longer.  _ Get on with it _ , she thought, squeezing her eyes shut, nails digging into the wallpaper.

She tried to conjure up Jaime’s face, Jaime’s voice. It was useless. Jaime couldn’t help her now.

He let go of her breast but pulled her hair and forced her head to the side. Cersei winced, it only made him pound harder. It hurt a little more.  _ Should have just sucked him off. _ She bit her bottom lip, resisting the urge to bite his cheek off and offer him a challenge. He noticed that and laughed, wrapped a hand around her neck and pushed her down to have a better angle.

It took him a few sharp thrusts to go over the edge.  _ Thank God. _ His fingers would leave bruises around her hips, but no one would see those. He slapped her ass cheek before pulling out. She grimaced when she felt his seed trickling down her thigh. He never wore a condom; Cersei was sure he secretly hoped to get her pregnant to spite her.

“Hope your brother heard that,” Robert laughed, going to lie down on the bed. He looked every bit the arrogant prick, with his cock out and his shirt still on. “Bet that would wipe the smirk off his face.” Cersei fetched a wipe and cleaned herself, refusing to as much as look at him, let alone fall into his trap. So he continued: “Though, I must admit the accident has dampened his spirit. He looks... quite pathetic with those crutches, doesn’t he?” She fixed her skirt down her legs, went to the full-length mirror to check her appearance. “Are you listening to me?”

Cersei turned around. “Leave the hair, next time, will you?”

Robert was smirking, knowing he’d hit a nerve. “You know, he’s not the perfect man you think he is.”

Cersei grabbed the hairbrush from the nightstand and tried to fix what he had ruined. “I don’t need him to be perfect. I just need him to be better than you.”

The smirk turned into a snarl and he leapt from the bed. Cersei’s hands froze; she didn’t want him to hit her, not here, not when the whole family was under the same roof and she would have no escape. He approached and pulled her arm, forcing her to look at him. “You don’t know him,” he hissed. “There are things…”

“ _ You _ don’t know him,” she rebutted.

“I’m sure I know him better than you.” Robert’s eyes sparkled with a glint of knowing rage. Cersei pushed him away with both hands, but he came back, more forceful, one hand at her nape and the other at her neck. Cersei became strongly aware that the hairbrush in her hand was her only weapon: ineffective. He leaned in, whispering in her ear: “He’s hiding something from you, my beautiful dumb princess.”

Cersei swallowed, tensing her neck to counter his strength. “Let me go,” she hissed.

But he didn’t. “Tear down that shrine you’ve built for him, my love. He’s going to disappoint you.” He let her go, eventually. She massaged her neck, sore from his grip, eyeing him with reproach. “Leave. I need to sleep before I come down for dinner. Fucking you is exhausting.”

It wasn’t until she was safe outside the bedroom that Cersei realized she was still gripping the hairbrush. She fought the urge to hurl it at the nearest wall, to stomp her feet and scream her heart out. Her core still ached from minutes before, her lower abdomen knotting in response, as if preparing for war against his violations.  _ One day the lid will pop. _

Cersei stared at the door, hands fisting at her sides, unable to move for the longest time, frozen by the storm raging inside her.

She had grown used to the physical blows and the psychological abuse. That, she was armoured against; it had taken years, but she’d learned to counter those attacks, or failing that, go away inside where it couldn’t hurt her. However, this time had been different. He had implied Jaime was keeping a secret. That he wasn’t being completely honest with her.

It stung. What could Robert know that Jaime hadn’t seen fit to disclose to her as well? What on Earth could be that… terrible, that he couldn’t share with her?

 

* * *

It was a Winter Wonderland. Just as beautiful as Cersei remembered it from the last time she attended a Boxing Day Ball, the Rock had never been more crowded, or more extravagant. Going quite against his father’s strict Black & White dress code, which he had in turn inherited from Joanna’s taste, Tyrion had opted for a more colourful pattern. The result was that it looked way more festive, way happier… way more Tyrion.

As Cersei made the rounds, wrapped in a tight-fitting red outfit, she was feeling nostalgic. Ever since Jaime’s accident, Tyrion had not been very forthcoming when it came to her. She knew he blamed her for Jaime’s behaviour. Was he wrong? She was the driving force behind his latest exploits. Now, she missed him, what they had accomplished. In a way, in her relationship with Tyrion she’d found true comradery. Jaime was never only her brother; he was always something different, something more.

It was Tyrion she was looking for, in the utter chaos that was the ball he’d organized. Every now and then someone would stop her to exchange a few words, but she wasn’t keen on friendly conversations, not tonight. The wheels in her brain had not stopped turning ever since Robert had told her about Jaime’s secret. At first she’d tried to persuade herself that he was just messing with her, trying to drive the two of them apart.

But Robert wasn’t a liar. He was many things, but he was honest. Brutally so. Why would he lie?

Cersei felt the warmth on her shoulder, and spun on her heels wondering who would have the gall to go ahead and touch her without permission. Of course she found herself looking back into a pair of green eyes. “Genna,” she said. She felt uncomfortable.

“Honey, you look gorgeous.” The older woman kissed her cheek. “Please call me Aunt, no need for formalities, we  _ are _ family after all, in spite of… well, you know.”

Cersei studied her surroundings. No one was watching, it must have been quite ordinary a scene to the eye of a stranger. But Cersei knew better. “Have you seen Tyrion?” she asked Genna, looking for a neutral ground of discussion.

“Good luck with that, he is so short…” Cersei frowned, and Genna noticed. “Oh child, ignoring it won’t do him any favours,” she explained, with a smile. “He knows what he is.” Genna pressed a hand to the small of her back and Cersei followed her to where the refreshments were being served. Genna lifted two fingers and the waiter was quick to pour two glasses of champagne. Genna handed one to Cersei and kept one to herself. “Cheers,” she said, tapping her flute to Cersei’s and sipping.

Cersei didn’t drink. Not right away, at least. She did not feel safe with Genna, and didn’t think numbing her senses would be a wise choice in that moment.

“I’m very sorry about that ugly affair with Kevan,” Genna was the first to bring it up. “He’s not a bad man, but he is loyal to the point where he is daft. Especially when it comes to Tywin.” She paused, eyes scanning the room and wincing with distaste when a woman Cersei didn’t recognize passed them by. “It’s a shame you never knew him.”

“Who?”

“Your father.” Genna took another sip of her champagne. People were quite obviously steering clear of the two of them, Cersei noticed. A few people were whispering among themselves. “He was quite a man. Feared, respected. A word from him could make you or break you.”

Her aunt’s words spoke nothing new. What little she’d known of Tywin Lannister amounted to exactly that: fear, respect and power.  _ Did anyone love him? _ Joanna may have, but Joanna had died. What about after? Had anyone loved her father after that? Had he ever let anyone in?

“You’re awfully quiet, baby girl,” Genna said with a chuckle.

Cersei sipped from her champagne then, at last. “I’m not afraid of you, Genna.”

Genna let out a hearty laughter then, one that made a few heads turn. “Good for you,” she said, tapping Cersei’s chin lightly. “Good for you, indeed.” The woman downed the rest of her drink, and held the glass up to the nearest waiter for a refill, which the boy did readily. “You look a lot like her. Joanna.”

“I’ve been told.”

Genna nodded, but it was as if she was no longer talking to Cersei. For a brief moment, Cersei was sure she was too occupied with her own thoughts to actually care about her presence. “Anyway,” she said suddenly, “We’ll all be out of your hair tomorrow.” Genna tilted her head, leant in to stroke Cersei’s cheek, push a strand of hair behind her hair. “That includes my brother, Kevan.” A pause. Cersei realized what Genna was saying only when she kissed her cheek again and lingered. “Lancel is the weakest link,” she whispered, lips brushing against her niece’s earlobe. Cersei could smell her perfume: she smelled like old money. “Enjoy the party,” Genna said at last before leaving her.

Cersei’s head was spinning.

 

* * *

The ball had been in full swing. She had caught a glimpse of Jaime at some point, but when he’d made to reach for her she’d slipped just out of reach and out of sight. It was too much, she couldn’t deal with all of it at once. She needed quiet, she needed a place to collect her thoughts and reassess her priorities. She desperately needed to calculate an exit strategy, or at least a course of action.

She had found shelter in the kitchen. They’d let her sit at the table, while the rest of them worked at the stoves. Mostly, they left her alone. She’d lifted her legs over the chair, folded them close to her chest; her heart was beating fast and she needed to breathe.

Jaime. Tywin. Genna. Kevan. Lancel. Robert.

She was biting the nail off her index finger, completely unfocused, when she heard the door open and a familiar voice.

“Does anyone have a screwdriver?” Cersei looked up and their eyes met over the kitchen table. Seeing her, Tyrion stopped in his tracks. Her state of mind must have been written all over her face, because he frowned. “Are you okay?”

Cersei opened her mouth to say  _ yes _ , but nothing came out. She wasn’t. Tyrion walked up to her, albeit keeping a safe distance. The things unsaid – and a few of those that  _ had _ been said, hung around them. Cersei put her feet down, trying to regain some of her composure.

“Do you want me to call J-”

“No,” she said quickly, so quickly Tyrion was taken aback by the vehemence of her denial.

He pulled a chair and climbed on, sitting in front of her. Cersei focused on the way his short legs dangled. “I spoke to Genna,” she explained.

Tyrion scoffed. “Anyone might have told you that wasn’t a wise move.”

“But… I need to know, Tyrion. She said… she said Lancel is the weakest link.”

Tyrion didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then he looked around, and when he did speak it was in a low voice, to be sure no one would hear what they were saying. “Cersei, are you entirely sure you want to know? Our father…” He trailed off, shook his head and then continued. “He was ruthless. As a fellow reject who wasn’t quite as lucky as you, I must warn you. His motives may not be pleasant.” Tyrion was dead serious, staring at her like he was reading her soul. “If I could trade places with you and not know half the things I know he felt about me… I absolutely would.”

Tyrion’s words didn’t quench Cersei’s turmoil. She considered asking him about Jaime, if there was something he was holding back from her. Eventually, she kept her mouth shut. It was better to keep Tyrion out of that, at least.

“I need to know,” she said, stubbornly. “Will you help me?”

Tyrion sighed, defeated. “Fine then. What do you need me to do?”

 

* * *

It was the easiest plan. Dorna had not left Lancel alone ever since the evening had begun. She kept eyeing the buffet, as if making mental calculations on how easy it would be for her son to get drunk at an event thrown by a degenerate such as Tyrion. The result was, as expected, that Lancel hadn’t left his mother’s side. Ever.

Cersei stood back, watching as her younger brother approached Dorna and Lancel in the middle of the celebration. From that distance, she couldn’t hear what they were saying; Tyrion said he knew exactly what would grab his aunt’s attention, and she had not made any inquiries.

As expected, the more Tyrion spoke the more concerned Dorna’s expression grew. It was only a matter of time before she turned to Lancel, spoke a few hushed words to him and followed Tyrion upstairs.

It was her turn.

She came up behind him, making the boy jump in his own skin. Cersei remembered Jaime telling her the boy had recently turned eighteen, but had the mind of a fifteen year old. Her brother had told him he was eager to please, Jaime most of all. Not to mention, he’d told her all Lancel wanted was to be just like Jaime. He worshipped the older cousin in a manner that may be considered unhealthy.

“Lancel, right?” she purred, offering him a flute of champagne, similarly to what Genna had done with her. The boy was immediately antsy, eyeing the glass she offered. “Oh come on, I won’t tell anyone.” She painted herself accomplice, and Lancel seemed to like that. He smiled a little and accepted the glass at last. “Would you walk with me? I need some fresh air, and this place is so big I fear I might get lost.”

Lancel was at a loss. “Me?” he asked.

Cersei pouted. “I was going to ask Jaime, but then I saw you were just as lonely as me, so I figured… you are not all that different after all, aren’t you?” She finished with a smile.

Cersei could tell it had worked the moment she had mentioned Jaime. The boy’s chest had grown two sizes, and his back was straight, no longer slouched under the weight of his parents’ smothering. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, not without a little arrogance. For the first time, Cersei saw the Lannister in him. He offered her his arm, and she linked hers with his. She batted her eyelashes, vixen that she was, and followed him.

As they made their way across the dancefloor and out into the gardens, Cersei met Jaime’s glare. It was fleeting, and she averted her eyes, stepping out into the icy, white world that awaited. A few people lingered on the patio, some of them smoking, most of them chattering.

“Come, I don’t like it when people stare,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his arm. She all but dragged him down the patio, and around the corner, all the way to the back of the mansion. Ahead, the whole lawn was covered in soft, white snow. The trees were heavy with white tops, and in the distance she could see nothing but winter.

They were alone.

“Thank you, Lancel,” she murmured. “It’s so hard to find a gentleman these days, isn’t it?”

Lancel smiled, proud. “I’m a Lannister. It’s how I was raised.” Cersei nodded. It was her opening: her smile faltered and she looked down. She covered her mouth with a hand and was shaken by a sob. Lancel hurried by her side. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Cersei said, watery. “I just envy you, you know? I am a Lannister, but I was never… raised like one.”

“Cersei, you possess an innate elegance which, dare I say, only a true Lannister could possess.”

It was difficult to keep a straight face at that.  _ I’m going to vomit _ . But she was a good actress, a great liar. She cupped his cheek and nodded, grateful. “It’s so nice of you to say that.” With her thumb, she massaged his cheekbone, taking an almost motherly behaviour. Lancel was so taken with her face he could not look away.  _ He’s thinking I look like Jaime _ . She retreated both hands and wrapped her arms around herself, looking out into the wilderness. “It’s hard. Not knowing why I was left behind. My soul is not at peace.”

Lancel’s silence could be interpreted in two ways: either he was completely dumb and had no idea what to do, or his allegiances were torn. Cersei decided to nudge him in the right decision.

“I feel terrible for Jaime, you know?” she added, casting him a sideways glance. “This whole thing is devastating. He’s my brother, he loves me, and not being able to help me is just… taking its toll on him.”

 A beat, she could listen to Lancel’s deep breathing.

“Cersei…”

_ Bingo. _

“Yes?”

“Maybe I can help you. And Jaime.” Lancel came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, patronizing. Cersei wanted to shake him off, but instead she turned in his embrace, sweet as sugarcane. “I don’t know the whole story… but I’ve heard mum and dad talk about it around the time you… well, when Jaime told us about you.” Cersei’s lips parted, ready to receive the piece of information she’d been craving. She placed both hands on the boy’s chest, urging him on. “It’s something to do with Hull Fair.”

Cersei frowned. “Hull Fair?”

Lancel nodded. “Dad said something about… wishing Tywin had never gone to that goddamn Hull Fair. Said it changed him  _ and _ Aunt Joanna. Something happened. I don’t know what, Cersei. But maybe… maybe you should speak to Jaime. Maybe it’ll ring a bell.”

She took a step back, quite sudden. She had no use of the boy now that she had what she needed. “Thank you, Lancel,” she said, quite dry. She patted his cheek once more, offered one last small smile. “I think I’ll see myself in on my own.”

 

* * *

Cersei had barely stepped inside when she felt herself being pulled into the wardrobe. She had no time to scream or ask for help, as someone pressed a hand to her mouth and stifled her noises. In the semi-darkness of the wardrobe, the stranger turned her around and she found herself staring into a pair of familiar eyes.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jaime snarled. “And then I see you sneaking out with our cousin Lancel. What’s going on?”

Cersei pushed his hand away, annoyed. She saw his crutches, abandoned against the wall, and his clear unsteady stance meant he had his whole weight on the one good leg. Robert’s words came to mind.  _ He’s hiding something from you. _ “Nothing.”

“You’re lying.” Jaime was bothered, and was doing nothing to conceal his displeasure. “What did you want with Lancel?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Well, you do seem to be frightfully determined to fuck just about anyone these days.”

She slapped him, and that lost him his balance. He leant against the wall, massaging the spot where the blow had struck. With wounded pride, he straightened himself and reached for his crutches.

“What’s Hull Fair?” she asked, harshly.

“Why?”

Cersei lowered her voice. “Lancel heard Kevan and Dorna talking about Tywin. They mentioned something about a Hull Fair.”

“It’s this… thing, in Kingston upon Hull. A travelling funfair, it’s in October.” Jaime furrowed his brow, trying to remember how he knew about it. “I’ve never been. But Mum was always saying how much she loved going there when she was young.”

“And Tywin?”

“Tywin what?”

“What about Tywin!?” she groaned, raising her voice. Her temper was flaring. “Jaime, Hull Fair is the only hint I have to get to the bottom of this shit. So please, think harder.” She punctuated the last few words by pushing a finger into his chest repeatedly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I don’t know!” he insisted. “I guess, he didn’t seem a fan of the place. Every time Mum brought it up he was always changing the subject.”

Hard as she tried, she couldn’t find the connection between Hull Fair, Tywin and herself. She hated the void of knowledge and experience due to her absence in their lives. If she’d been there she would have paid more attention than Jaime, would have remembered every detail, no matter how insignificant. Now, as she tried to piece together the pieces of a life not lived, she felt powerless. And angry.

Hull Fair, Hull Fair, Hull Fair. The words bounced off the walls in her head, trying to remember whether she’d ever heard that mentioned by Roger Reyne or anyone close to him, but nothing came to mind. It was, as of now, a dead end. Cersei hated dead ends: the truth was so close, yet just out of grasp.

“We’ll find out,” Jaime said, as if sensing her displeasure. “Cers, I promise you, I will turn every rock on this goddamn Earth to find out.”

His green eyes were piercing right through her. It had a soothing effect, it always did, and she felt pacified. “Alright,” she murmured, nodding and looking down. “Alright.”

In the silence, she grew aware of their proximity, and of the fact that they were alone. It was always risky.

They heard a loud commotion outside, and Robert’s voice thundering. When she looked up she saw Jaime was just as confused, and they both hurried outside. People had gathered in the saloon, but the mood was quite different from when they’d left the ball earlier: they were no longer lingering, they were watching something.

Jaime and Cersei made their way towards the centre of the ballroom, where they could make out Robert’s words before they could see him. “Outrageous!” the man was complaining, “I have got nothing to do with it,” he insisted, arguing with someone. The crowd parted in seeing them arrive.

The scene was peculiar. The first thing Cersei noticed was the ugly, tall woman standing beside her husband, in her blue uniform.  _ The police. _ Then she saw the metal cuffs at her husband’s wrists, and that was even weirder. “What is going on?” she asked out loud, and her voice, unexpected, made everyone turn around.

“Cersei, listen-” Tyrion tried to talk, but before he had a chance to get a word in two men were already closing in on her, one of them grabbed her by both arms and forced her around.

“Hey hey hey,” Jaime was unsteady on his crutches, but he still tried to push the men off her. “Don’t touch her.” It was useless: there were two of them, and Jaime was barely able to stand on his own. They pushed him away quite easily, and someone helped him when he lost his balance. “What do you think you’re doing!?” He was fighting to the best of his strength, which wasn’t much in his condition. It took Tyrion’s intervention to calm him down.

As the handcuffs clicked around her wrists, she watched Tyrion whisper something in Jaime’s ear and her twin’s expression go blank. Cersei barely registered what the police were saying, but her ears picked up what a girl was saying somewhere behind her.

“They found a body,” she was whispering to her neighbour. And another one: “They found a body in Storm’s End.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> Blonde, tall, muscular, handsome as she was beautiful. When Cersei saw him walking in her eyes went wide and her face lit up. She walked up to him and hugged him tight, careless of the crutches that seemed the only thing keeping him upright altogether.
> 
> “Are you okay?” Jaime Lannister murmured, eyes closed, face buried in his sister’s hair.
> 
> “I want to go home,” she complained, pulling away and resuming her restless pacing.


	18. penny drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a girl gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello little doves! I'm absolutely drenched, and not in the good sense. Literally just had to walk through a wholeass thunderstorm, hence the reason I'm a little later than usual. But the saying goes, "Better late than never"! So here's a new chapter, which will be... a surprise to most I guess! But it was fun to write! Also, if this chapter looks a bit transitionery... it's because it is, but also transitions are necessary to let things simmer and settle.  
> Have fun, I'll see you at the end of the chapter for the usual preview of what's to come!  
> Love y'alls! <3  
> f.

If there was one thing Brienne Tarth knew it was that she was  _ wrong _ . Inherently, since her very first breath. They had never let her forget it – never, throughout the twenty years she had lived. No one that young should have had to live through what she had, yet there she was, on her way to a bright career as a detective in the London police. Many had snickered, whispered behind her back: that it was only because of her father, Commissioner Tarth, that she did not deserve it. Little did they know her father liked her even less than they did.

Uglier than her mother, weaker than her brothers, Brienne had always been  _ less _ than someone else. The constant comparison had contributed to making her younger years a living hell. That, and people’s cruelty.

Another woman would have turned against them. A lesser woman would have let hatred get the best of her. But not Brienne. All she had ever wanted, ever since she was a little girl, was to make people proud, even those who couldn’t care less about her. To help and protect like her daddy before her.

Nothing mattered to Brienne more than fulfilling her purpose.  _ Nothing _ . That was the only reason why she had not caved under peer pressure at the Academy, as one of three girls at training camp. She had graduated top of her class, much to her male companions’ dismay. The unhappy memories far outweighed the good ones – no one had been kind to her, ever. Not at school, not at home, not at the Academy.

She’d grown stronger, but sometimes she craved affection. She was extremely starved of that.

That was when she’d met Renly Baratheon, Robert Baratheon’s brother. The Prime Minister had not been a Prime Minister yet, back then, but he was already the rising star of Labour politics. That had come with a certain influence, and it had not been hard for him to find a good job for his younger brother in the Court of Common Council, the decision-making Board that governed the London Police. That had made him, matter-of-factly, her father’s supervisor and in turn, hers.

He had been kind to her. She was thankful for that.

Which was precisely the reason she didn’t like what she was about to do.

Robert Baratheon sat in an interrogation room with his lawyer, and Brienne didn’t know how to deal with the whole thing. That was her benefactor’s brother, yet he was also a person of interest in a murder case. There was no easy way to do this: she had to go in, head first, and treat him as she would anyone else. Not that it would be easy: ever since he’d stepped into the police car, he’d been complaining aloud that  _ he was the Prime Minister _ and they would  _ regret this for as long as they lived _ .

He maintained his innocence. Brienne knew Robert was known for his insatiable appetite, when it came to women. That made him a viable option in their investigation.

Melara Hetherspoon’s body had been found in a well, in an advanced state of decomposition. According to the coroner’s office report, the corpse had been there since early December. They had found her wearing a fancy dress, so it had been easy to put two and two together and realize she had died the night of Robert Baratheon’s victory lap. Even though Robert Baratheon was a plausible suspect, he was not the one Brienne was most interested in.

She was way more enticed with the Lannister family, especially the Lannister twins. After all, witnesses had confirmed Melara Hetherspoon had been Jaime Lannister’s date that night, which automatically put him at number one on Brienne’s suspects list. The woman, however… there was something about her which chilled Brienne to the bone. She couldn’t tell what it was, but Brienne prided herself in being a good judge of character. Her instincts had never failed her, so far. Cersei Lannister made her uncomfortable. It could have been because she reminded her of every beautiful girl who had looked down on her throughout her life, mean and cold and ruthless.

She wasn’t allowed in the interrogation room when Prime Minister Baratheon was questioned, but she looked on from behind the tinted glass.

“Honestly, detective, why are we still here?” asked Baratheon’s lawyer. Petyr Baelish had a pointy chin and a long face. He spoke with the determination of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Brienne only had one word for him: sleazy. “My client was surrounded by people at all times throughout the whole night. How could you possibly expect him to manage sneaking out just to seduce a girl and then… what, rape her? Kill her? I’m not sure what you’re accusing him of.”

“We are not accusing anyone of anything yet, Mr. Baelish. But you understand, the body of a young girl was found on your client’s property. We have to ask a few questions on his whereabouts after the party.” A pause. “What happened after the crowd was gone?”

Robert stared ahead, silent for a while. “I went to bed.”

“Can your wife corroborate that?”

Robert leaned into Petyr’s ear, murmured something. Petyr turned around, he looked annoyed with him, but had to do what he was told all the same. “My client said he went to bed. He didn’t say with whom.”

The policeman asking the questions shifted in his seat. Brienne felt uncomfortable, all the way on the other side of the glass. Men were… disappointing. “Mr. Baratheon, infidelity is not a crime,” her colleague reprised. “Murder is. If there’s anyone who can confirm your whereabouts that night, I suggest you give us a name and a phone number. We’ll make the call, and you’ll be free to go in no time.”

Brienne felt like he’d watched enough. There was no point in watching further. She had never suspected, not for one moment, that Robert Baratheon might have killed the Hetherspoon girl. He had no motive; the way Brienne saw it the truth was the Prime Minister did not hate women, he hated himself.

She walked down the long corridor, ignored by most. She preferred to be ignored than to be stared at and wondering which part of her they were focusing on or laughing about. She was the youngest, in the station, practically a child no one listened or paid much attention to, unless they wanted to make fun of her. It made it easier to act without being seen.

Hyle Hunt was waiting for her in a small room adjacent a second interrogation room. Upon seeing her come in, he stood up hastily. He was arrogant and smug, and there were times she wanted to slap that smirk off his face, but he was the closest thing to a friend she had. “What’s she doing?”

“Smoking, mostly. A lot. Her lawyer is on his way.” He paused, tilting his head. “I could spend all my days looking at that ass.”

Brienne grimaced and turned to the scene playing out in the room, beyond the glass. Cersei Lannister was pacing the room, cigarette in her hand and a worried expression perpetually on her face. Brienne let herself study the woman: she was… beautiful. Her chiseled face, her plump lips, the green eyes and golden waves. She was everything a woman should be. (Not her, though. Not Brienne.) And in spite of everything, she still managed looking like an angel.  _ Was this what Lucifer looked like when he was banned from the Heavens? _

“Is everything ready?” Brienne asked Hyle.

“Yes, m’lady. Ready when you are.”

Brienne drew a chair and sat down. “Go, then.”

Hyle Hunt left the room, and Brienne was left alone. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head hanging down in preparation. She was listening to her own breathing, gathering her thoughts. They would be angry when they found out, but she was hoping to get something good out of this before they had a chance to fire her. To compensate.

She heard the door, looked up and watched the man entering the room on the other side of the glass. Blonde, tall, muscular, handsome as she was beautiful. When Cersei saw him walking in her eyes went wide and her face lit up. She walked up to him and hugged him tight, careless of the crutches that seemed the only thing keeping him upright altogether.

“Are you okay?” Jaime Lannister murmured, eyes closed, face buried in his sister’s hair.

“I want to go home,” she complained, pulling away and resuming her restless pacing. Jaime was watching her, Brienne could see his knuckles going white. “I don’t understand why they’re keeping me here.” Brienne was not watching her now, but him: he was a statue, she could read no emotion on his face. Cersei continued, as Jaime grabbed a chair and sat down, not without difficulty. “Can’t you _ do _ something?”

“Someone  _ died _ , Cers,” Jaime responded, placing his crutches on the table. “It’s not like I can pull the Lannister card.”

“Jaime, I don’t wanna be in here.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Petyr Baelish. Same as Robert. He insisted, said we should have a… line, I don’t know.”

Jaime nodded. “If need be, I’ll call uncle Kevan. He’s a good lawyer. Baelish is… good, but not the sort you want to be associated with.”

Hyle Hunt walked back into the room Brienne was in, drew a chair and sat down next to her. “It’s so unfair, isn’t it?” he said, wistful. “Look at them. They’re gorgeous, the both of them. Why waste all that beauty on two people alone?”

Brienne didn’t give him the satisfaction to take his words into consideration. Hyle was always inappropriate, and if by chance he wasn’t, then he surely was insufferable most of the time. Antagonizing him wasn’t a luxury she could afford though. He  _ was _ her only ally.

“Who was it?” Cersei was asking, inside the room.

“Melara,” Jaime replied. The victim’s name. Brienne knew he was familiar with her. “They found her in a well, in Storm’s end. She fell, hit her head. She was dead before she hit the water.” Brienne sat up straight and focused on Cersei’s reaction. She had stopped pacing, she was watching him, confused and, Brienne thought, annoyed.

“Jaime, you know I didn’t do it, don’t you?” the Lannister woman said. Jaime Lannister didn’t say a word. Cersei was growing antsy. “I didn’t.”

That was when Brienne noticed Jaime Lannister shooting a look at the glass.  _ He knows. _

“I know you didn’t,” he stated, slowly. “You were with me the whole night.”

Cersei Lannister hesitated, frowned. Then nodded, ever so slowly. “I was with you the whole night.”

_ Fuck _ . Alarms were going off in Brienne’s head, louder than ever. So that was how they were going to play it: they would be each other’s alibi, and it would come down to their word against… Well, no one’s. It was a lost battle: the Lannisters had money, power and influence, friends amidst the rich and scum alike. All Brienne had was a hunch no one would pay the slightest attention to.

Was Jaime Lannister covering for her? Or was he covering his own ass? After all, he’d brought her along, that night, as a date. Brienne knew the pieces were on the table, she just didn’t know how to piece them together. Why lie if he was sure of his sister’s innocence?

Hyle Hunt beeped. He checked his phone, elbowed Brienne in the side. “They’re done with Baratheon. Baelish will be coming for her any minute now,” he finished, tilting his head in Cersei’s direction. He was on edge, perfectly aware of how much they’d risked by doing this unsupervised.

It wasn’t like her to go against the rules, but she’d been so sure… So sure…

“Brienne, what do I do?” Hyle insisted.

“Get him out of there,” Brienne said at last, defeated. Hyle jumped and ran out of the room. Seconds later, she witnessed her colleague step inside the interrogation room and all but drag Jaime Lannister out, crutches and all. Cersei was left alone again, staring at the chair her twin brother had been sitting on, now vacant.

It was brief, but just before the door opened and Baelish stepped in, Brienne could have sworn she’d seen the ghost of a smile playing upon those stupidly beautiful lips of hers.

 

* * *

The commissioner’s office was large and dusty. Her father was disappointed.  _ Nothing new. _ She trained her eyes on the golden plaque on the wall behind him, which he’d received on the occasion of his 30 years of service. She didn’t need to look at him to know his double chin was trembling. He’d been going at it for the past twenty minutes now, about how ashamed he was, how she was not worthy of his last name, how he’d smeared his good reputation. “I didn’t raise you to be like this,” he’d mentioned at some point, and Brienne had fought the urge to reply he had not raised her at all.

“They are hiding something,” she tried the moment her father stopped talking long enough for her to chime in. “Ask Hunt, he was with me.”

“Hyle Hunt?” he hissed. “As of anyone with a functioning brain would listen to what  _ he _ had to say.”

Jaime Lannister had blabbed. Complained to someone about not being granted his right to privacy upon seeing his sister in the interrogation room, which had led people to say he should  _ not _ have been allowed in the same room as his sister before she was questioned, which also led him to say that  _ well _ ,  _ he had been  _ and the rest had been easy to put together when the officer had found her and Hunt in the room.

“Dad, you have to listen to me-”

“They’re ruling it an accident.”

Brienne gaped. “What?”

“The girl was lost in the grounds. She slipped and fell.”

Brienne stood up hastily. “That’s not what happened, and you know it,” she growled. “Why on Earth would that girl have ventured so far from the main building? Alone?” Brienne’s head was spinning; the girl’s death would remain unpunished. “You can’t let them do this.” It was too inconvenient for the people involved. Baratheons, Lannisters… The wealthiest families, the most important, they would be allowed to walk freely and Melara’s death would never be avenged. “Let me question Jaime Lannister.”

Selwyn Tarth slammed a fist on the table. Brienne didn’t flinch; she was used to her father’s outbursts. “You will do no such thing,” he bellowed. “You have done enough. I’m suspending you until further notice. You  _ will _ hand in your badge and your gun on the way out.” Brienne had opened her mouth to speak, but Selwyn was quicker. “Say another word, and the suspension will be permanent.”

She was furious, red in the face. Her heart was thumping loudly in her ears, her muscles tense and blood pressure boiling high. Cersei Lannister’s small smile came back to haunt her, taunt her. Brienne was tired of people like Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, and Robert Baratheon getting away with everything. She couldn’t tell who was responsible for Melara’s death, but certainly the girl had no reason to be out on her own. Someone must have brought her there, someone who knew exactly there would be a convenient hiding place for a corpse. It was premeditated. It was murder.

Brienne felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Wordlessly, she took a step back and bowed her head solemnly before turning on her heels and heading out. She closed her father’s office door behind her and started walking. As she walked down the corridor, she felt the burning stares coming from her colleagues. Brienne held her head high, didn’t even stop when she heard someone snickering.  _ They’re glad to be rid of me _ , she thought. She reached the depository, where she put down her badge and her gun. Letting go of those left a bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

 

* * *

Three weeks later, the arrest of Prime Minister Robert Baratheon and subsequent release was still very much a topic of conversation on daily shows. Bit less so on the newscast, as the reporters had moved on to bigger, better stories. Brienne, instead, had not been able to focus on  _ anything  _ else.

Melara Hetherspoon was not one of the lucky ones. Even though she belonged to a wealthy family, her father’s death a few years prior meant she lacked the status of protegée. Her mother, in Italy, had been notified of her daughter’s death and had flown in, but the two weren’t on good terms and the woman had simply accepted that the girl, clumsy as she’d always been, must have simply stumbled.

Brienne had attended the girl’s funeral; it had been a very mediocre event, a gathering that held no real contrition or mourning. She’d thought about all the nameless deaths across the country, unloved. She thought about her own death, wondered if her father would grieve even just one day. And thought about the fanfare that had been Tywin Lannister’s death, all the people flying in from all over the globe, making a great show for a man who did not possess an ounce of humanity.

_ It isn’t fair _ . But life wasn’t fair, she had learnt as much.

He arrived in a towncar around midday. A security guard stepped out of the passenger seat and held the car door open for him. He wore a grey suit, the perfect fit; his hair was combed neatly, his face clean-shaven. His pearly white teeth looked like fangs. Brienne decided she couldn’t wait any longer: it was now or never.

As she approached, the security guard saw her from a distance and stepped in front of her, halting her march.

“Mr. Lannister, can I have a moment of your time?” she heard herself say, like an ingénue little girl asking for an autograph. Jaime Lannister narrowed his eyes at her, seemingly asserting how much of a threat she might actually pose. Clearly, he decided she wasn’t dangerous, because he placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder and invited him to step aside and let her speak. “My name is Brienne Tarth.”

A smirk made its way upon his handsome face, sculpted. “I remember you,” he said. “You’re not easy to forget.”

_ He means it as an insult _ . Brienne didn’t back down. “Melara Hetherspoon was your girlfriend,” Brienne said. Jaime began to walk to the Lannister Ltd. Building, and Brienne followed him.

“That’s a strong word,  _ girlfriend _ ,” he joked, “We shared some interests, most of them horizontal.” Brienne felt a heat rise to her cheeks, and Jaime noticed. He seemed to be the kind of person who’ll notice your weaknesses and use them against you. “Have I made you uncomfortable? How old are you?”

Brienne was taller than him. “Twenty.”

“So young,” Jaime stopped dead in his tracks at the revolving doors to the building that carried his name. He looked up at her, head tilted and amused. “Miss Tarth, what do you want exactly?”

It took all her courage for what she said next. “You know what happened to her, don’t you?” Brienne said. Jaime was biting his bottom lip, studying her face. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought he found her  _ pretty _ . But he didn’t: he just found her  _ funny _ .

“I already told your colleagues everything I know,” he said. Suddenly he didn’t sound so friendly anymore. “As I’m sure you already know. You’ve been suspended, haven’t you?”

Brienne didn’t answer. “I know you’re hiding something,” Brienne continued. Jaime’s smirk had turned hostile. “You owe it to her, Mr. Lannister. Do the right thing.”

Jaime paused, and Brienne knew he was fighting a battle somewhere inside. Perhaps she’d struck a chord, perhaps she’d touched someplace inside him. Maybe he would be the exception. He took a step and drew closer, close enough that she could count the green speckles in his eyes.

“I am doing the right thing, Miss Tarth,” he said, menacingly. “Don’t make me ask for a restraining order. You can’t afford that on your record, if you ever want to be reinstated.”

He disappeared behind the revolving doors, and this time she was not allowed to follow.  _ No more Mister Nice _ , she thought. She stood there, on the sidewalk, as people passed her by without sparing a second glance. No one cared. No one ever cared about the little people. The Lannister building stood, majestic and terrifying, above her.

In its shadow, Brienne felt insignificant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> He liked the way her eyes travelled across the expanse of his chest. “You need something, don’t you?” he asked, “You always need something from me.”
> 
> Cersei looked pained, like whatever she was about to say was insufferable to her, and even worse, the fact she had to ask for help and could not fence for herself drove her up the wall. “Yes,” she said at last, training her eyes on him. “Yes, I need something from you.”


	19. breaking point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she needs a little help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope you're well. I want to open these Author's Notes with a film rec: I have just reurned from a screening of the movie "Judy" which is awesome, I cried buckets and Zellweger is just *chef's kiss*.  
> But back to our chapter - which is a short but very important one. I know the Brienne chap was tough on some of you, but don't worry: the story is and will always be about Jaime and Cersei, and anything in between will ultimately be nothing but an intermission. Anyway, I won't spoil anything by saying too much here: have a nice read and, as per usual, see you at the end!  
> f.

The scar on his inner thigh was a permanent reminder of what he had lived through. It had been two months now since the accident. Most of the pain was a distant memory now. He had ditched the crutches a few weeks before but it would still take longer than that to feel like his old self again, so long that he had begun to wonder if he ever would. So much had happened since then, and it all revolved around  _ her _ .

Jaime had waltzed into Cersei’s life and turned it inside out, upside down and everything in between; but she had taken his old habits and everything he thought he knew and tossed it out the window. Jaime knew she must be perfectly aware of her disrupting effect.

Neither had mentioned the Hetherspoon accident since it happened. Both Robert and Cersei had maintained their innocence, and with Petyr Baelish and his ruthless defence the whole issue had been resolved within the day. Exception made for that unlucky encounter with the tall, ugly Tarth woman, Jaime liked to think the worst had passed. Robert’s reputation had suffered, of course. You can pull the plug on an official investigation, but you cannot silence public opinion. The number of people still convinced the Prime Minister was a murderer had increased – the Targaryen loyalists had feasted on the occasion – and his likeability had plummeted. Given the situation, it had not been a good couple of weeks for his PR team. Still, he was cleared of all charges and there was nothing public opinion could do to unseat him. Not in the present, at least. It was unlikely he would be re-elected, unless something happened to make it all go away, and fast.

Jaime had severed all ties with the matter. Cersei had made it easier, as she was doing all in her power to avoid him. Jaime had already noticed a certain detachment  _ before _ the Melara accident. Something had happened during Christmas holidays, something had changed. He knew her enough to be sure something must be going on in that brain of hers, only she did not let him close enough to find out. She felt hostile. Every time they were in the same room, he could feel her eyes on him, piercing, only to look away the moment he dared return the courtesy.

She was spending an awful lot of time with Tyrion, surely, which only heightened his suspicions. One day, he’d returned from Lannister Ltd. and found them huddled over an old photo album, in Tywin’s study. Upon seeing him, she’d made up an excuse and left. Questioning Tyrion wasn’t useful either: ever since their fight, his little brother was morose and tried his best not to mention Cersei around Jaime. He was avoiding the truth, and Jaime was fine with it, as he had been terrified of that conversation. How do you admit to your own brother that you  _ want _ your sister? As in,  _ desire _ , fantasize about her, dream about her, think about her to the point life itself seems meaningless when she’s not around?

The dance they were dancing was unbearable. Jaime knew she was obsessed with what Lancel had told her. He himself had done some digging, but had not found much at all. Even Kevan had eluded his questions at work. Jaime had not pressed further, knowing his uncle to be the relentless type. He would not give out information if that information somehow smeared the good name of his late brother.

No, someone else would have to be bought in order to shed light on the mystery of Hull Fair, and Jaime was not in the mood.

He had been spending most of his time in the gym room, working on his legs to try to build the muscle he had lost after the car accident. His thighs had grown softer, thinner due to lack of exercise. His doctor had advised to start slowly, but Jaime did not know the meaning of the word caution – clearly, elsewise he would not have found himself in that situation.

The gym room was exactly where he was when she stepped in and finally acknowledged his existence.

He saw her lingering by the threshold, in the corner of his eye. He had his feet up, planted firmly under the weight of a 15 kilos heavy metal plank. His thighs were trembling with the effort, droplets of sweat falling down his naked chest and onto the bench. With one last effort, he managed to pull up one last time before letting go; the plank came down with a loud clank and he sat up, reaching for the towel he’d dropped to the ground.

“Look who’s here,” he said, getting up and lifting a leg over the bench to stretch the muscle.

Cersei stepped in, hands clasped at her front. It didn’t take him long to realize she was worried about something. It did not concern him – it did, but he’d have to pretend it did not as a show of power. This was what it was like, between them, a continuous back and forth in the attempt to show dominance.  _ I don’t care about you _ , their actions said, yet they kept circling back to each other.

He liked the way her eyes travelled across the expanse of his chest. “You need something, don’t you?” he asked, “You always need something from me.”

Cersei looked pained, like whatever she was about to say was insufferable to her, and even worse, the fact she had to ask for help and could not fence for herself drove her up the wall. “Yes,” she said at last, training her eyes on him. “Yes, I need something from you.”

“Why don’t you ask Tyrion?” he retorted, spiteful. He was jealous, plain and simple, that Tyrion was allowed proximity and he was not. That Tyrion was the brother she wanted near rather than him. It had not been like that until Christmas, he remembered vividly. Somewhere, someone had pushed a button inside her.

“I can’t,” she admitted, looking away. She looked angry, and that was melting some of the ice. He felt himself growing angry on her behalf, without knowing the reasoning behind it. “Tyrion is in Robert’s cabinet, and people would follow him and take pictures and…” She trailed off and groaned in frustration. “I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t vital.”

“Just get to the point.”

“I’m pregnant.” The words rolled off her tongue like a death sentence, terrible and final. Another woman might have been happy, but not Cersei. “I mean, I think I might be. I didn’t get my period at all this month.”

Jaime’s mouth was dry. It felt like something was stuck in his throat. He could not speak at all, or at least not with the right words, not with what he wanted to say. He looked down instead.  “Congratulations, then,” he said, drying off the back of his neck like his stomach wasn’t turning on itself.

Cersei took a step forward, grabbed him by the arms tight enough that he felt the claws dig into the skin. “I don’t want it, Jaime,” there was a pleading in her voice, “Not his child. Not like  _ that _ .” Her grip was vicious for a being as small as she was. It spoke of her despair. “Please, you have to help me. I can’t turn to anyone else, I don’t…  _ trust _ , anyone else.”

Trust. A weird word, considering she had not as much as spoken to him at all in the last few weeks. Yet the selfish part of him was weak against the need to shield and protect her from the world. She knew what buttons to press when it came to Jaime. He was powerless in that sense. He wanted to reach inside her and rip off the seed of Robert’s malice, and in doing that free her.

He didn’t need to think it through: he knew exactly what he would do, and that was exactly whatever she asked him to.

“I know someone,” he said at last. “I’ll ring him up, see what’s the fastest route to  _ get there _ . I’ll call you when I have it.”

Cersei nodded, snaked a hand behind his neck and pulled him down to kiss him. It was… unexpected. It was innocent, the merest brush. He didn’t even get a chance to savour it before she pulled away, murmured a  _ thank you _ and walked away, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of her lips against his.

 

* * *

It wasn’t difficult at all, once you knew the right people. Professor Qyburn had been stripped of his medical licence a long time ago but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve and a few favours to ask. Jaime had met him at a particular stage of his life, which he did not much like to think about nowadays. Painkillers and mood stabilizers were not easy to come by, and Jaime had made a downright mess of… a certain situation. Even though he no longer required his services, he had kept in touch.  _ Just in case _ , he always said, but he had always managed not to fall back into old habits.

Three days later Jaime had called Cersei and told her he had what she needed, and to drop by Casterly Rock so they could… fix her problem. He had time to think about it, the whole day. She had told him she would show up later that night, when it was dark and it was less risky.

Qyburn had given him a pill, smaller than an Advil. It was in a small plastic bag, one of those tiny ones Jaime had often seen passed around in nightclubs, usually with cocaine inside. It weighed zilch. He had kept it in his breast pocket the whole day, terrified someone might find out. Cersei had been vehement no one should ever suspect a thing, not even Tyrion. Only the two of them. Jaime had told Qyburn he had accidentally knocked a girl up, and the doctor seemed to believe it.

He had warned Jaime that there might be blood, and the girl would need some help with it.  _ It could be as easy as drinking a tall glass of milk, or it could be messy. _ The doctor’s raspy voice had not left his ears.

Jaime was… well, terrified.

His thoughts had gone to Joanna, who had died of birth complications. A woman’s body could be tricky, and when it came to birthing… Jaime remembered. He did not like to think Cersei might go through the same amount of pain, and remembering that it would be Robert’s fault only made things worse. He’d be there for her of course, but he wished she didn’t have to go through this at all.

He did not like blood on his hands either, yet he had collected quite some.

As promised, she was at the door around 11 pm. He didn’t ask how she’d gotten rid of the security guard, or how she’d managed getting there without anyone recognizing her. He didn’t care in that moment, as the small pill in his breast pocket suddenly weighed a ton. He wanted to get rid of it, and he wanted to get rid of whatever was growing in her belly, uninvited.

“Was it hard?” she asked once they settled in the bedroom he’d gifted to her. Jaime noticed suddenly she wasn’t wearing anything fancy and he liked that. She didn’t need all that when she was with him, she had no need of armour because he was no threat.

“Not really,” he told her, and showed it to her. He saw her swallow at the sight, greedy to put an end to it. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

Cersei’s eyes shifted from the pill in his hand to his face. “Of course I am,” she retorted, and he immediately regretted asking. “I will not have his child. I won’t let him do this to me.”

He saw the reasoning behind that. Robert could hurt her, wound her, but he would not have access to her most prized possession. It was the only thing she could keep from him, the only thing she could keep to herself. “Fine,” he said. “You can have it…” He drew his hand back before she could reach for it. “But first, I need to know what’s going on.”

Cersei froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

In that moment, Jaime knew she  _ was _ hiding something. He had to wonder: had Tyrion gotten to her somehow? Had he told her he  _ knew _ , and somehow asked her to give him space? Jaime did not want space. He wanted her close, always. Had their little brother managed to convince her what they had was wrong and had she somehow made up her mind against it? Jaime couldn’t stand it. So far, just the thought it was possible…

“Jaime, it’s nothing.”

“It’s clearly something, you can’t even look me in the eyes.” Called out, Cersei looked up. He could see it then: something in her eyes, a fire, a doubt, he couldn’t tell. But it was something. Was it loathing? Was it fear? “You know you can tell me everything.”

Cersei snapped at that. “Can I?” Her voice was hard. “Have  _ you _ told me everything?”

_ No _ . Jaime hesitated. She couldn’t know about  _ that _ . “Of course I have, what are you even blabbering about?” He was starting to feel anxious. He had known everything in his power to be sure no one ever knew about that. Well, his father knew, but no one else. Not even Tyrion. It was impossible. No, she couldn’t know.

“Robert said…”

She trailed off. It gave him a chance to think, he had to be quick. Robert. Robert  _ couldn’t  _ know either. Could he? But then again… Everyone knew Robert had ordered Rhaegar’s murder. He could know  _ people _ , he could have learnt  _ things _ .

“Since when would you rather listen to Robert over me?” he pressed on. Cersei was struggling and he was counterattacking. It was the only way. He hated keeping a secret from her, but she was innocent in her own way. He wasn’t. She had no idea. “Cersei, please. I’m not hiding things from you.”

Oh, how he loathed himself.

“Swear to me,” she said. “Swear to me on your own life.”

“I swear on my own life.”

That did not seem to please her still. Her jaw was still set, her lips pursed in a thin line. She held out a hand, demanding what was owed to her. He dropped the small pill in her palm. He did not like the glint in her eyes, and he hated the words that came from her lips even more. “Now, swear on mine.”

_ No _ .

He could not do that. The silence that followed was loud, so loud he could have been singing his own guilt. She shook her head, took a step back and retreated into her own bathroom without uttering a single word. The disappointment he glimpsed upon her face just before she closed the door slashed his very soul. The sound when she locked the door was deafening.

“Cersei,” he tried once, receiving no response. He approached the door, knocked gently. “Cersei, the doctor said you shouldn’t be alone.” Still, no answer. He placed his forehead against the surface, closed his eyes, tried to picture her inside, staring at her own reflection, deciding what to do with a treacherous brother who wouldn’t offer her the truth. Jaime couldn’t help it that the truth was so ugly he could never tell it to anyone.

He let a few minutes pass by without insisting. He knew she would need time to process it. He only wished she would let him in to be sure she was alright. Five minutes, ten minutes. He sat down on the edge of her bed, deciding he would wait for her all night if that was what it took. It was nearing midnight, wouldn’t people start to wonder where she was? Had she told Robert where she was going?

Jaime couldn’t remember ever standing vigil this long. At some point he heard the flushing, and he stood up. A noise inside the room, the water running. And then the key turning inside the keyhole, unlocking the door. He watched her come out of the bathroom with a face that did not betray any emotion.

“So?”

She walked right past him, grabbed her coat from the couch. “I didn’t take it.”

“Why?” he asked, confused.

“I got my period.” She was putting on her coat now, like nothing had just happened. “I’m leaving.”

“Cersei, wait.”

“No,” she turned around. “I am done waiting. I waited half my life.” The hurt on her face was tearing him apart. “You’re just like the rest of them.” She was already at the door when she finally looked at him. He’d never seen her smile so cruelly. He hated that mask. “Actually, you know what? You’re worse than them. You said I should trust you and only you, remember? I did. I did, and look at you now. You’re lying to me, just like everyone else. How are you any different from Robert?”

That stung. “I love you.”

She scoffed and shook her head while putting on her gloves. “Robert used to say that too, in the beginning,” Cersei told him. “He never meant it, it was just… courtesy, I guess. And the fact that he wanted to fuck.”

“Cersei, I do love you.”

“It isn’t loving to make me beg.”

He took a tentative step forward, but she lifted a hand to stop him in his tracks. “Don’t,” she commanded, then spun on her heels and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you were expecting the usual "Next on", but I'm going to have to disappoint you this time around. I can't show you anything from the next chapter, as things are getting... somewhere, and I don't want to risk it. Also, a small warning: I will not be updating Perihelion next week because, well, this week will be hectic between work et all and I don't wanna rush a new chapter and risk giving you something that's less than you deserve, quality-wise! And I'll be honest, this seems to be a nice point to give you a little breather and let it simmer and settle. A cliffhanger, almost! So I ask you to be patient, and I'll be back for sure on November 5th!  
> All my love.  
> f.


	20. journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they go on an expedition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sweet honeybees! Hope the last two weeks have been wonderful for you! Sorry for the wait, it was quite vital to me honestly. Juggling life and work and everything in between is not quite as easy peasy as I would like it to be, so now and then I need to take a little break to gather my thoughts and actually have time to write without the pressure of updating. Still, every week that passes without an update is as much a pain for me as it is for you, because I really really do wanna share the whole story with you, and if I weren't quite as anxious to perform I'd probably upload all the chapters as soon as I write them, but I also thik it's very important to pace yourself and your story, if you want people to really enjoy it.  
> The truth is about to come out!   
> Enjoy, and see you after the chapter for a little tease of what's to come.  
> Love love love.  
> f.

It was strange how noticeable her absence was. One might think it would not be all that much, to be apart, given that they had been brought up separately. They would be mistaken. Jaime felt like a limb had been ripped off his torso. To heighten the void, Tyrion’s stubborn silence did nothing to help. Jaime had tried looking for his brother’s understanding, but failed to find any. He was becoming used to the cold shoulder. His sulking no longer earned him any sympathies from Tyrion. In his naivety, he had tried to call Addam Marbrand, who had not even bothered picking up. Most of the people who would answer his call were sycophants, people he did not really want to spend time with, and people who certainly wouldn’t help filling the void left behind by an obsession.

Overall, he had never felt more alone.

Work was a nice distraction, but far from his favourite activity. Many had been surprised to see him cooped up in his office well into the late hours of the night. “Goes to show there’s a first time for everything,” Kevan had commented once, thinking Jaime would not hear him.

At first he’d not really  _ worked _ . He had done such a great job at delegating his affairs there was little left for him to do that was not already being done, by someone else,  _ for _ him. Jaime spent most of his days lounging on the couch watching television with his feet up; then a small lunch break and back on the couch. Whenever someone knocked at his door, he would scramble to his feet and pretend to be in the middle of something. It reminded him of his teenage years, going through naughty magazines and hiding them under the bed whenever Tywin or Tyrion would walk in. Well… At some point Tyrion had been old enough that he had showed him the magazines, but that was another story.

February had felt like the longest month without the warmth of human interaction. By the time March rolled in, however, he had grown tired of that funk and decided to do something. He had asked for Tywin’s accountants, two short spectacled men who still quivered in his father’s wake in spite of his death. Jaime had asked to take a look at his father’s books, which was… surprising to them. Kevan was the CFO and had been taking care of those books. “I know,” Jaime had said, “But my name is on each and every paper that comes out of this office. I need to be aware of what is going on in here.”

_ Better late than never _ , Tywin’s voice whispered in his ears.

That afternoon they brought up Kevan’s registry from the basement. Jaime had frowned. “These are my uncle’s books. I asked for my father’s books.”

“But Sir, those are… very old. And your uncle made some changes which-”

“On whose order?” Jaime briefly skimmed Kevan’s pages. “I want my father’s books.”

Judging by the dust on their covers, no one had touched Tywin’s books since he died. It had been ten months now. The accountants had brought up everything they could get their hands on, and Jaime could not see an inch of wood under the amount of paper on his desk. Now, alone with his father’s ghost, Jaime went through his pages and recognized his handwriting. It felt sentimental, nostalgic.

Tywin had been many things, not all of them nice. But Jaime realized now, he missed him. He was angry with him for hiding Cersei from him, surely, but that was not all there was to it. There were questions he hadn’t asked him, things he hadn’t told him. Tywin had always looked immortal; he certainly had  _ felt _ immortal to the people who would have wanted nothing better than his downfall.

But even giants die.

Among the many things that had been dropped on his desk, he had found an old notebook. Red leather cover, seemingly older than most records. There was something different about that notebook – the handwriting was different. Jaime recognized Joanna’s, and it brought a smile to his face, a tenderness for his father and mother both. He slid a finger over the lean letters, imagining the pen in his mother’s hand. As he turned the pages, reading through his mother’s thoughts, he felt like an intruder. Sitting on the couch, he prepared to read when an old photograph fell into his lap. It was old, lucid paper. Jaime recognized Tywin and Joanna immediately, even though they were much younger. Well, Tywin was – Joanna, in Jaime’s recollections, would be young forever.

He noticed Tywin’s small smile before he could notice anything else. His thin lips stretched, almost imperceptible, over his teeth. He had his arm around his wife’s shoulders, in a carefree stance Jaime couldn’t remember ever witnessing. Joanna’s smile was wider, her eyes softer, a hand over her protruding belly. Jaime squinted. That must have been when she was pregnant with him.  _ And Cersei.  _ He made a mental note to show the picture to her as soon as she stopped being mad at him:  _ our first picture together _ .

He noticed something, then. A fancy door, a beautiful garden far on the left. The small sign above their heads read “Mercure Hull Grange Park Hotel”. It rang like something, something he should remember, surely. It took Jaime a few moments to understand what he was seeing. On the back of the photograph, Joanna’s elegant hand had written down “Hull Fair, 1980”.

 

* * *

Downing Street was crowded when Jaime dropped by on the following morning. From where he stood, in the waiting area, he could see people walking by in a haste, most of them speaking on the phone, hushed. Jaime had no idea how his sister managed living in the ever-going mess of a political hive. Did 10 Downing Street ever truly sleep? Did Cersei?

He was getting annoyed. He had been there for half an hour. He knew what game Cersei was playing at – and he would not let her win this. She had not returned any of his calls or messages from the night before, so he had decided the only viable option was to be where she could not avoid him. Her own home.

“Sir, can I bring you anything?” asked a woman Jaime assumed must be part of the household.

“My sister, if you can.” The woman smiled meekly, as if apologizing of Cersei’s behalf for her lateness. “A glass of water will do just fine, thank you.” Jaime watched the woman disappear out of the room, glanced at the watch on his wrist.  _ Noon _ .

He hated that whole place. First of all, it smelled of Robert Baratheon, and he loathed Robert Baratheon. If he focused hard enough he could follow the whiff of his cologne all the way to his study. The whole place reeked of entitlement, which Jaime easily linked with the Prime Minister. Secondly, he could not shake off the feeling that this was his sister’s gilded prison. The urge to break her out was scalding. Her room must be upstairs, her bathroom as well. Those were the halls in which she pined, the place which saw the tears she meant to hide from the world – from him. If the house could talk, what would it say?

_ Save her _ .

He stood up hastily. Without a word, he left the room and started walking down the corridor. A couple of staff men watched him, confused, but no one stopped him. Jaime took advantage of the confusion to keep walking all the way to the staircase.

“Sir?” asked someone suddenly, but Jaime did not stop. He started walking up the stairs, two steps at a time. “Sir, you can’t go there!”

“Try and stop me,” he bellowed, but he was already at the top of the stairs. Upstairs everything seemed much quieter. The ringing of phones downstairs sounded muffled. Jaime had been in Downing Street before, but never upstairs, never in the Prime Minister’s private quarters. Let alone Cersei’s room. It hit him that he had no idea where to go.

He started walking, pushing every door open as he did. He found a bathroom, a private study, a locked door, another smaller bathroom with a shower in place of a bathtub, a closet, an empty bedroom with two small beds that gave him pause – he hesitated on the threshold, remembering Rhaenys Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen, whom the room must have been originally decorated for when this was Aerys Targaryen’s residence.

He did not like to think of that. He could  _ not _ think of that.

He kept going, fully aware of the commotion downstairs as they called security. He had to find Cersei before they got to him, before they could throw him out. He was Cersei’s brother, but Cersei was the wife of the Prime Minister of England. No one, not even Jaime Lannister would be allowed to go anywhere without permission.

He found her, at last, in her bedroom. She was sitting at her vanity putting on lipstick. She saw him in the mirror and her eyes went wide. “What on Earth are you doing?” she hissed.

“You can’t just… treat me like a fucking nuisance.” He was pissed. “I’ve been waiting for forty minutes. Those chairs are quite uncomfortable.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to see you, have you thought about that?” She stood up, held the silk robe close to her body. “I’m not dressed, and this is very inappropriate.” She was looking at the door, right behind him.

“You are ridiculous, you know that?”

Two tall men made their appearance on the threshold. “Ma’am, should we escort him out?” Jaime laughed at them, and their face grew meaner. Cersei’s silence was heavy and briefly he wondered if she would have him dragged kicking and screaming, if the rift between them ran that deep.

“It’s my  _ brother _ ,” she told them, and Jaime was pleased to hear the disdain in her voice. “I don’t need protection from my  _ brother _ , are you stupid?” She went to the door and all but shut it in their faces. When she turned to him, however, she was not that pleased. “Why are you here?”

Jaime found the old picture in his breast pocket and handed it to her. She regarded it with some hesitation as if she did not trust him, or anything that came from him. Then she took a step closer and looked at the picture. “Are those…”

“Mom and dad,” he explained.

“Yeah, and?” her eyebrow was raised, skeptical. “If you’re trying to play the family card it’s not going to cut it.”

Jaime groaned. “Look at this,” he said, pointing at the sign in the picture. “Look where they are.” Cersei looked closer, and Jaime saw realization dawn on her. He flipped the photograph, showing her Joanna’s handwriting. “Look at the year. 1980.” Cersei looked away then, deep in thought. Jaime watched her, awaiting a reaction. She was biting the nail off her pinkie.

“So?” Cersei said at last.

“So?!” Jaime couldn’t believe his ears. “Let’s go!”

“Where?”

“Listen, we know where mum and dad stayed the last time they went there,” he explained. “ _ 1980 _ , that’s the year we were born,” he pointed at Joanna’s belly in the picture. “Remember how I told you they never went there again after that?” He waited for a sign of acknowledgement. She was hugging herself, and Jaime wished she would let  _ him _ hold her. “Cers, I know it could be nothing but… it’s better than waiting for a miracle, isn’t it?”

Again, he waited. She was biting her bottom lip. Jaime could practically  _ hear _ her think. He was anxious, almost as much as her, but for different reasons. This was, to him, an opening. A way to spend time with her and try to fix what was broken. If he could have her all to himself for a day or two, perhaps, he could show her there was nothing to what he was keeping from her. That all he was not saying was only for her sake.

“I… I need to get dressed,” she said finally. Jaime smiled, widely. “Give me half an hour, I’ll have a driver ready.”

“No,” he said, hurriedly. Too hurriedly, and she noticed. “I mean, this is family business. I do not want anyone to butt in. I do not trust anyone with this.”

“Yes, that seems to be your prerogative these days,” she said, harsh, before retreating into her bathroom to change.

 

* * *

It would be a four-hours drive to Hull. Cersei had insisted on leaving a note for Robert in his bedroom – which was when Jaime found out they slept in separate beds. It brought him some comfort, even though he wasn’t stupid enough to delude himself into thinking Robert would not claim his right whenever he felt like it.

Jaime was driving. After the accident, he had not driven that much. His leg still hurt now and then, and being behind the wheel sometimes brought back flashes of that night. Still, it felt safe enough to drive, in spite of Cersei’s doubts. He would not be seen as weak or needy, not again.

His sister had insisted to ride in the backseat. “I’m not your chauffeur,” he had complained, but Cersei had said it would be less conspicuous to leave London like that, that the two of them would attract too much attention. Jaime would steal a glance or two into the rear-view mirror and see her focused on her phone. They had exchanged a look a couple times, but Cersei seemed dead set on avoiding all kinds of interaction.

Jaime liked a challenge. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and he was very determined to succeed.

“You and Tyrion have kept busy,” he mentioned en passant. “Discovered anything?”

Cersei looked up. She did not look very willing to share any sort of information, and he knew where that discomfort came from. Why should she disclose her secrets when he was so wary to share his with her?  _ Because her secrets are not bloody, and messy _ . Jaime drove fast, but not quite as fast as he used to drive before the accident. That part of him had been smothered by the post-traumatic stress.

“The transactions didn’t start right away,” she said. Jaime was about to ask more, but she beat him to it. “The first time Tywin gave Lord Reyne money was in 1985.”

Jaime found that bizarre, why would you give away a child and only decide five years later to support her financially? Then again, much of the ordeal was bizarre in and by itself. When had a wealthy man ever needed to give up a child? Money had not been the problem.

The sudden loud noise of a plastic bag caught his attention. “Hey, no crumbs on the leather,” he warned, noticing the bag of chips in her lap. Cersei shifted on the seat, perched on the edge. She held out a hand so that he could see it. Crushed a chip in her fist and peppered the crumbs all over the passenger seat. “Very mature, Cers. Very fucking mature.”

She fell asleep two hours into the trip.

Jaime stopped for gas nearby Birmingham, and decided against waking her, knowing it would only worsen her mood. When the tank was full, he entered the small gift shop and asked for a sandwich and a coffee. On the television screen, in the corner, he saw his brother-in-law giving a speech during the opening ceremony of some new sports centre for troubled youths. Jaime could not hear what Robert was saying, but he was well aware it was a load of bullshit. Nothing  _ but _ bullshit had ever come out of Robert Baratheon’s mouth, in his experience.

The sandwich wasn’t all that, but Jaime wagered he couldn’t ask for much at a gas station. He got a bottle of water and another sandwich to go, just in case Cersei was hungry when she woke up.

He was waiting for the cashier to give him his change when he heard the commotion outside. He recognized his sister’s voice immediately, so he rushed outside. She was yelling at someone who kept backing away, trying to apologize for something, phone in hand. It was hilarious because the man Cersei was scolding way bigger than she was.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Jaime asked, quick to join them.

“I woke up and he was taking a picture of  _ me _ ,” Cersei accused.

Jaime tilted his head at the man. “Come on man, give me that phone,” he said, quite peaceful.

“It’s my phone,” the intruder tried to argue.

“Yes, and that’s  _ my _ sister,” Jaime continued. “Wanna bet which one is worth more?”

“I’ll delete it,” he said, holding onto the phone for dear life.

“No offense, but I don’t think you will. On the contrary, I think the moment I look away you’ll post it somewhere and  _ I _ will never hear the end of it,” he added, lower. “Please, give me your phone.”

It was a lost battle, and the other man knew that as well. Eventually, although it pained him, he handed his phone to Jaime. He looked at the snap on the screen and laughed, turning towards his twin. “You were  _ drooling _ ?” he said. “Classy.”

“Shut up,” she balked.

Jaime sighed. “It’s a nice phone man,” he said, addressing the man once again. “I love these new models, they’re very handy.” Jaime grabbed the device with both hands and pressed in the middle with both thumbs, forcefully, ignoring the man’s objections. The phone stabbed in half. Jaime smiled. “Too bad they’re so fragile, huh?” He tossed the remains onto the concrete and turned to Cersei. “Get in, let’s go,” he ordered, and Cersei grinned before doing just that.

As they sped up from the gas station, she sat in the passenger seat, next to him.

Half an hour later, at Jaime’s insistence, Cersei accepted that a bag of chips could not possibly be considered proper lunch and accepted the sandwich he had gotten for her. He tapped his fingers onto the steering wheel, absent-mindedly, going along with the music coming from the radio – an old 80s song.

“Is this Michael Jackson?” Cersei asked between bites. “Or is it Prince?”

Jaime grimaced. “It’s George Michael.”

“What, they all sounded the same,” she tried, but Jaime was already groaning. “What! It’s true!”

“They absolutely do not and I have no interest in keeping up this conversation with you because your musical taste is so clearly inferior-”

“Oh, shut up, they all sound exactly the same and you know it and you’re just being elitist because-”

“…you have no idea! No idea! Their music shaped a generation, they-”

“…oh my God you are insufferable, I swear to God I will open this door and-”

“…their influence! Their power!”

Cersei started laughing and Jaime did too. For awhile, they forgot about Hull and about all the things Jaime could not say. Tywin, Robert, Tyrion and anything that was not the two of them no longer existed. Jaime was aware it would not last: dreams never did.

 

* * *

Mercure Hall looked very different than it did in the old photograph. Clearly, the place had undergone renovations, as it looked much more modern than it did in 1980. Dread settled in, as Jaime pulled up the parking lot: forty years had gone by, what were the chances of finding something useful here? He glanced at Cersei sideways, saw her furrowed brows and knew right away she shared his concerns.

“What’s our strategy?” she asked, regarding the manor for a little while. “Should we tell them who we are?”

“I’m not sure,” Jaime was hesitant to give out that information. “What if they warn the press you’re here?”

Cersei nodded in agreement. “But they wouldn’t give out that information to just anyone.”

Jaime was deep in thought. “Do you have a pair of sunglasses big enough to cover your face?”

“Gee, thanks,” she deadpanned.

Jaime smiled. “I’ll tell them who I am, but I need you to stay undercover. It’s you the media wants, not me. I’m just the unattainable bachelor, you’re the desirable Prime Minister’s wife.”

Cersei smirked. “Desirable?”

Jaime looked her up and down. She wore a two-piece deep green suit, and a white blouse underneath with too many buttons left open at her breasts.  _ She does it on purpose _ . “So I heard,” he joked before opening his door. “Put on those glasses and let’s go.”

She liked to test him, that much was obvious. It was quite cruel, the way she dangled the chance before his very eyes only to take it away when it was plausible he might seize the opportunity. He remembered how she had kissed him only to prove it was meaningless – a point she had really failed to make that time around. Even now, she craved validation. He was willing to give it to her because he was not a liar. She could deny it all her life, if she wanted to, but he had no intention of doing that. It would not be a life worth living.

She needed to be loved, desperately.

He did, desperately.

A man who did not look a year past twenty welcomed them at the desk. “Do you have a reservation, Sir?” he asked Jaime and Cersei, smiling broadly. Judging by how unaffected he was by their presence, Jaime was sure he had not recognized him. Hell, he was not sure he would recognize Cersei even without the sunglasses. Did that boy even know who the current Prime Minister was?

“Ehr, not really,” he said. “I need to ask a few questions. Is there anyone who might have been here in 1980, or before that?”

“Well, Nana Magdalene would definitely have been here, but I don’t think she will be answering any questions.” He made a gesture to mean the woman’s head was not all there anymore. “Wait, what kind of questions are we talking about? I’m not sure I can give out information unless you’re the police or something. Are you with the police?”

It didn’t escape him that it was the second time someone looked at him and asked him if he was a policeman.  _ Once maybe _ , he thought bitterly. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But this is very important. See, my parents…” He fetched the old photograph from his breast pocket and stretched it on the counter. “…they used to come here. They’re dead now.”

The boy looked uncomfortable. “Sorry about that?”

Jaime was losing his patience. “Listen,” he began, doing his best to keep calm. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, knowing people were more responsive after being handed a few bills. Before he could do that, though, he felt Cersei’s hand close around his wrist to stop him. He looked at her, questioningly.

“Do you have a spare room for the night?” she asked the boy, sugary. “We’ve been in the car for hours and we still have quite a trip ahead, I’m not sure we’ll make it if we don’t stop for the night.”

“Oh. Well, we’re quite booked actually…” the boy started. “But I can check.” He stepped away to where the computer was and began typing away on the keyboard.

It gave Cersei a chance to grab Jaime by the sleeve and force him to look at her. “You’re being too forward,” she hissed under her breath. “Look at him, there’s no chance in hell he can help us. We just need to bide our time until someone who can comes along.”

“Just one night, you said?” asked the boy from the other end of the counter.

Cersei put on a fake smile. “Yes, darling, if you’d be so kind.” Jaime watched in awe. She really had them all wrapped around her little finger. The smile fell the moment she turned to him once again. “Let me handle this.”

“You’re lucky, ma’am, I can accommodate you,” said the boy at last. “It will be 83 pounds.” He returned with a sheet of paper with all the details of the reservation.

Cersei skimmed the paper, before nodding and patting the back of the boy’s hand. Jaime squinted and felt a pang of jealousy. Then he realized they were both looking at him expectantly. “Oh, yeah,” he realized. He gave one-hundred, “Keep the change,” he said, wanting nothing but to go to their room and  _ think _ things through. He would have to warn Tyrion that he would not be coming back that night, not to mention warn Kevan he would not be at the office in the morning. They would not miss him.

“Thank you…” Cersei told the boy. She made a show of looking down at the nametag pinned on his chest. “…Timmy. Thank you, Timmy.” Jaime rolled his eyes at how she purred his name aloud. “Will you be here all night as well, Timmy?”

_ I am going to barf. _

“N-no, ma’am.” Timmy stuttered. Jaime could only imagine the erection in his trousers, the mere thought of being touched by someone who looked like sister must be sending him. “My ma will be here in the evening, and then we have a trusted doorman for the night shift.”

“Oh, your ma!” Cersei said, feigning elation. “Good.” Jaime did not miss her sideways glance. “Well, I’ll be seeing you in the morning then, Timmy.”

He had not expected to stay the night. As they rode the elevator accompanied by a bellboy, Jaime remembered he didn’t have any spare underwear. He sighed deeply, pressing a finger against his right temple. He could feel a headache coming. Every time he looked at his sister, she seemed excessively chipper.

They were shown to their room and, after tipping generously, they were finally left alone. It was spacious, minimal, not quite as luminous as he would have wished, but it would do.

The bed looked comfortable enough, but there was just one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> “You’re shutting me out,” he growled.
> 
> Cersei did not avert her eyes, she had nothing to fear nor hide. In fact, she had been the most honest between the two of them. “Yes,” she said, “And you are not letting me in. Seems we have reached an impasse.”


	21. Hull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they find a piece of the puzzle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello, you wonderful candy canes! I'm fairly sure you weren't expecting an update this early, but i'm lucky enough to have a day off so I thought, why not! Hope you're enjoying these chapters as much as i enjoyed writing them: it truly is my fave bit of this story. I think the temperature is just about right, isn't it?  
> As always, thank you for reading and leaving your comments, I have so much fun reading them, and they give me such joy you can't possibly imagine.  
> That being said, no time to waste: the chapter awaits! I'll see you at the bottom for a little spoiler of what's to come.  
> Much love,  
> f.
> 
> p.s.  
> If yo udon't already, you should follow me on twitter (@ valonqars)!. In between my reams of bullshit, I do have a whole thread dedicted to all things Perihelion. For instance, I recently created a spotify playlist just for this story. Feel free to check it out or use it as a background music while reading: [You can find it here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3tKjtWbT0ADAQ9KYj0oXUd?si=ygnJ4M8TSgqfFX6tRLZQsg)

Cersei swallowed. Neither moved for a while. They stood, side by side, looking at the big bed. Cersei remembered the first time they had shared a bed, in Casterly Rock. It had been strange, and that had been before. So much had happened in between that now sleeping on the same mattress did not feel wise. The wound was still open, and Cersei would not bet on Jaime’s resilience. Nor her own. There were times she still caught herself staring, wondering what it would be like. Her eyes would fall on the way he bit his bottom lip, or how the shirt stretched over his biceps, or his lean fingers. At night, she still dreamed about him often, more often than she would like.

When she touched herself, it was still Jaime she thought about.

It was always him.

“Well,” she spoke first. “I’m assuming you’ll sleep on the sofa.” Jaime did not answer, but Cersei saw the fleeting smirk on his face. “Jaime.”

“What, scared you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself?” he asked, walking backwards towards the bed with open arms. “But you said you didn’t feel anything. You were very set on that.”

“It’s not  _ me _ I’m worried about,” Cersei replied, annoyed. Jaime lifted an eyebrow ad sat down on the bed, legs crossed, amused by her discomfort. “You know what, I was being polite. I was offering you some privacy. You can sleep wherever you want, it’s nothing to me.”

But it was something. Because he was right. Cersei felt anxious to spend time with Jaime for more than one reason, the first being she had not forgotten that he had lied to her. Well, not lied as much as… omitted the truth. Still, she felt cheated and disappointed.

She threw her coat onto the table and went to the window. The sky was dark outside already: 5 pm and the moon was stark white against the deep blue of winter nights. The room was warm enough.

“So, what’s the plan?” Jaime asked her.

She did not have a plan, not really, but she did not want to admit to that. “We order room service,” she said, “and then we go down for a drink at the bar.” At Jaime’s silence, she turned around. “See if we can catch Timmy’s mother. She should be old enough to remember something.”

Jaime shrugged, then added: “Too bad the grandmother is off limits,” he said, almost a second thought. “I’m sure she would remember dad. You know how old people are, they remember the most useless shit.”

She had to agree, the old woman’s state was an inconvenience. A noise outside caught her attention and she looked out the window once again, this time downwards. A woman had just parked her car and was rushing inside the manor. “Jaime,” she said, prey to a sudden thought. “Tyrion once told me to let it go. That I might be better off not knowing.” She placed a hand on the glass, flat; it was cold against her skin. “We’re still on time. We can still… go home.”

She leaned her forehead against the glass as well. The coolness helped still the storm inside. In the silence that surrounded her, she did not hear him approach until he was right behind her, hands on her hips, chin on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, relishing the warmth that radiated from him.  _ Familiar _ .

“Say we don’t like what we find out,” he murmured against her cheek, arms sliding around her waist to hold her tight. It was wrong. All of it. But it felt like it was exactly where she was supposed to be, so she stayed put. “He’s dead. He cannot hurt you anymore. And you got me, no matter what.”

Cersei felt herself stiffen. “Jaime, could you…”

“What?”

She put her hands on his arms and pushed them away, tried to disentangle herself from the embrace. “I can’t breathe.” Slowly, Jaime let go. Still, Cersei perceived him hovering behind her. She tried to slip past him, but he stepped sideways to hinder her. “I need my bag.”

“You’re shutting me out,” he growled.

Cersei did not avert her eyes, she had nothing to fear nor hide. In fact, she had been the most honest between the two of them. “Yes,” she said, “And you are not letting me in. Seems we have reached an impasse.” That silenced him. He even took a step back. No amount of cracks would get him to budge.

“Fine, you want to be like that? Be like that.”

Cersei never knew what  _ like that _ meant. Jaime grabbed the room keys and left, slamming the door shut.

 

* * *

 

It was 9 o’ clock when Cersei left her room. Jaime had not come up at all for dinner; she had ordered room service for two – scallops and roasted potatoes, but eventually she had eaten hers on her own. He had not left. Cersei had peeked through the curtains and seen the car still parked in the same place they had left it upon arrival. Pride had kept her from dialing his phone number.

Pride seemed to keep them from doing many things these days.

Cersei hated not having a change of clothes. It had never been her plan to stay the night. She had ditched the jacket, put on some lipstick – her purse never went without. She had brushed her hair and debated whether to put it up or leave it down. She decided for the latter, eventually.

It was not hard to spot him. With his tailored suit and his broad shoulders, he was quite different from the average Englishmen surrounding him. He sat at the bar, alone, mulling over what looked like whiskey judging by the amber-ish liquid inside the glass. She leaned over a table and grabbed a napkin before heading towards him.

He heard the clicking of her heels and looked up when she was within ear’s reach. “I’m not in the mood to fight,” he said. Cersei held up the napkin then, and waved it with a gentle swirl of her wrist. “What is that?” Jaime asked.

“A white flag.” He rolled his eyes and laughed  _ at _ her. It was better than nothing. “Can I sit down?”

“Be my guest,” he said, proceeding to call the bartender. “What’s your poison, birdie?” He was a bit slurred, a sign that this was not his first glass and probably would not be his last. It saddened her.  _ Did I do this to him? _

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she told the man behind the counter.

He was staring into his glass. “People are starting to recognize you,” he pointed out after scanning the room. And he was right, few heads had turned and she could hear the buzz underneath the soft jazz soundtrack. “So much for undercover.”

She acted out of instinct, placed a hand over his and squeezed. He seemed surprised by the contact. “I’m with my brother,” she said, matter-of-factly. “It’s only suspicious if we make it so.” A man in the far corner made a gesture to raise his hat to her, and Cersei nodded. “Not to mention, maybe seeing me here amongst peasants will make me 18% relatable.”

Jaime laughed, turned his hand in hers and squeezed back. “Not too relatable, though,” he said. His eyes were a little lucid from the alcohol. “Anyway, that’s our prey,” he added, nodding to a spot behind her. Cersei glanced over her shoulder: from their stools, they could see the reception desk. Timmy’s mother was a middle-aged woman, pretty but average, with long auburn hair. She was in the middle of welcoming a pair of elderly guests, showing them something on a map. She looked kind when she smiled.  _ Kind people can be tricked _ .

“Has she seen you?” Cersei asked, accepting the glass the bartender offered and taking a sip. It was strong, and she grimaced. Perhaps she had bit on more than she could chew. “This is  _ toxic _ .”

“Toughen up,” he said. “And no, she hasn’t.” As if to make a point, he downed what remained of his glass in one go. A bellboy came around to pick up the couple’s luggage and escort them to their room. The woman remained by herself behind the desk and resumed a game of chess on the computer. “How do you want to do this?”

“Go for the heart,” Cersei said, swirling the glass so the liquor hit the walls of the glass, sloshing gently. “She looks like a nice person.” They were both looking at the woman now, each with their own thoughts and ideas. “She won’t resist a little compassion, nice people never do.” She shifted in her seat, took another sip. It didn’t burn as much as the first one. “If all else fails, we have to play the sex card.”

“What’s the sex card?”

Cersei was not looking at him. “ _ You _ are the sex card.” Her stomach was in knots at the mere thought. “A woman like  _ her _ could never resist a man like you.” She stood up all of a sudden, uncomfortable at the possibility. “Shall we?” Jaime was watching her, hooded eyes. Eventually he followed.

They walked across the bar, followed by more than a pair of curious eyes. Cersei put on her best smile, even shook a couple hands.  _ Don’t think about the germs _ , she told herself, wiping her palms subtly on her skirt. The hall was deserted, the only sound came from the relentless ticking of the clock.

The woman looked up, distracted, but her eyes went wide the moment she saw them approach. “Mrs Baratheon,” she whispered. “Oh my God, no one warned me you were coming,” she said, words chasing each other, panicked. “I did read the name Lannister on the registry, but I didn’t think it was- oh nevermind, I am so elated, my husband and I are big supporters of your husband, we voted for him, I was-“

Cersei smiled. “Please, there’s no need for that.” She grabbed the woman’s hands, trying her best to look gracious and warm. “I’m so sorry to drop by like this, without a warning. I hope my presence won’t cause you any trouble with your customers. I was in the middle of a trip upstate and I know my parents used to come here all the time.”

The woman’s face lit up at the mention of Tywin and Joanna. “Oh! Yes! I was so young back then, but I remember them. Especially your mother, she was a rare beauty. You resemble her so much.”

Jaime put a hand on the small of her back. “She does,” he chimed in. “I’m Jaime. Jaime Lannister,” he said, introducing himself.

“Of course you are,” the woman said. “You look like your mother as well, you know? Oh, what am I saying, you two look so much alike, of course you  _ know _ .” She laughed at herself, blushing. “I’m Agnes, is there anything I can do to help?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, Agnes,” Cersei said, then turned to Jaime and pointed at his breast pocket, where she knew he kept Tywin and Joanna’s picture. “There’s something we’d like to show you,” she continued, Jaime handed her the picture and she gave it to Agnes. “This is the last time they were here, wasn’t it? 1980. It’s the year before Jaime and I were born.”

Agnes grabbed her half-moon spectacles, hanging against her chest by an elegant chain. As she put them on, she looked at the photograph closely. “Yes. I do believe I’m the one who took this picture.”

Cersei felt a rush of warmth throughout her body, knowing the truth must be within reach.

However, Jaime pressed further. “Ah, that’s fortunate. See, we were wondering if you remember something specific from their last stay. Anything out of the ordinary, really.”

“I…” she trailed off, looking at them over the rim of her glasses. “What is this about?” In her voice was a gentle discomfort that might even be mistaken for fear. “It was 1980, I was 9 years old. I was a child.”

“Children can  _ see _ things,” Cersei said. “Things adults are blind to.”

Agnes took off her glasses, took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. “I’m not sure what you want from me,” she asked, retreating into a sort of cocoon. There was no trace of her initial welcoming attitude. She was putting up a wall.

“We’re looking for a clue. Anything that might help us put together the story of our parents,” she said. “ _ Our _ story.  _ Mine _ .” It was true and Cersei was fighting to keep her displeasure at bay. The need to kick and scream was gripping her insides. “I need to know what happened here, Agnes. I know for a fact this is where it all began.”

Agnes was biting her lip, deep in thought. Jaime’s hand had moved to Cersei’s hip, his grip tighter.

“And whatever I say will not have any consequences for me? Or my family?” the woman asked.

“Absolutely not,” Jaime rushed to say. “No one will ever know who said what, we promise. And you will be rewarded for this, Agnes. Beyond your wildest dreams. You know what they say about Lannisters.”

“Lannisters always pay their debts,” she murmured. She looked in pain, torn between what they were asking and wanting to mind her own business. Still, a Lannister’s promise was worth a lot and Agnes was not stupid. She knew that. “Fine,” she conceded at last. “But I was young. I can’t vouch for my own memories. And I can’t tell you what happened, because I wasn’t there when it did. Only after.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Cersei said, anxious and hungry for more.

“My mother fell in love with Hull when she was very young, and she decided she wanted to live here. So she put up this whole…” she motioned to the manor, “…this place. I was young and my mother was alone. My father was not in the picture, and my mother could not afford a baby-sitter, as she was already drowning in debts after buying the manor. As you can imagine, I spent a lot of time in these halls. Unattended. Playing by myself, exploring. Doing things children do.”

Cersei could almost see her – it wasn’t all that different from the childhood she’d had, money and all. Even surrounded by wealth and a numerous family, Cersei had preferred to spend her playtime on her own, feeling like a stranger in her own home.

Agnes continued. “Your father was… a scary man, Mrs Baratheon. Whenever he came around, I’d always run and hide. Your mother was nothing like that. I remember once she even brushed my hair, spun them in these gorgeous tresses.” She paused, lost in the recollection. “But that’s not what you’re here for. Not for  _ those _ memories.” Suddenly, she looked extremely sad. “I remember that night. It was October. I remember because they always came ‘round for the Fair. Except this time… this time was different.”

“Because this time she was pregnant,” Jaime said.

“Yes, you could barely see it,” Agnes agreed, “but there was more than that. Something had happened.” Another pause, then she shook her head. “I have never heard a cry that desperate in my life, I will remember it as long as I live. Your mother, she was… she was broken. And your father was terribly angry, he went from yelling to trying to comfort her, to yelling again. It was…”

“Where were you?” Jaime asked.

“I was in the corridors, running along, playing. I heard them and I put my ear against the door to understand what was going on.”

“What did you hear?” Cersei asked then, fully aware of how feral she sounded.

“He was saying, ‘ _ Stop being absurd _ ’ and ‘ _ You’re better than that _ ’. And she kept replying, ‘ _ What if it’s true? _ ’ over and over again. And the more she repeated that, the angrier he became. Until…” She looked up at the twins. “Until he said  _ ‘No one is killing anyone’ _ .”

Cersei absorbed those words, but found they had no meaning. If anything, it was even worse, having so much and knowing so little. She felt frustrated, she wanted to throttle the woman and make her spit out a truth she did not possess.

Jaime spoke up, as if he’d felt her anger. “What happened next?”

“Your father came out of the room and caught me eavesdropping. I have never been more scared in my whole life.” Agnes was clutching her own fingers, wrenching them with nervousness. “He made me swear to never repeat what I’d heard to anyone. And I didn’t.” She sounded relieved now. “I didn’t, until now.”

All the words were stuck in Cersei’s throat. There was so much she wanted to ask, but knew the woman wouldn’t have the answers she was looking for. Her tale was over, what she knew she had already given to them. There was nothing else to squeeze.

She felt at a loss.

_ Now what? _

 

* * *

 

Wordlessly, they’d walked all the way back to their room. Wordlessly, Jaime had undressed to his boxers and plopped down onto the couch, an arm over his eyes. Just as wordlessly, Cersei had unzipped her skirt and slipped under the covers wearing nothing but her underwear and her blouse. Wordlessly, they had switched off the lights and tried to go to sleep.

Cersei was tossing and turning a lot, sleep eluded her. There was no way of possibly turning her brain off. There was no logical explanation, not without the fundamental piece of the puzzle missing, whatever had happened before Tywin and Joanna’s fight. All that talk about  _ killing _ , and Joanna’s fears… how could it all come together? And what did that have to do with her, with Cersei?

Was someone threatening Joanna? And if so, why? Perhaps someone had targeted her to get to Tywin. The Targaryens? Back then, according to family history, Tywin and Joanna had been quite close to Aerys and Rhaella. Aerys was not yet Prime Minister, although he was well on his way to becoming the next Big Thing. Cersei was delving into speculation now: maybe Aerys had forced Tywin, who was just as influential as him, to take a step back and propel his own rise to stardom? What better threat than the health of his pregnant wife? It was no surprise Tywin had never run for office when so many people had expected him to.

She rolled on her back again, staring up at the ceiling.

“Can’t sleep?” Jaime’s voice brought her back to reality.

“Not really.”

“Are you okay?”

In the darkness, she could scarcely see his shape slumped on the sofa. She could see the outline of his feet, propped up on the armrest. “I’m not sure.”

He said nothing in response for a long while, but Cersei knew he was awake by the pattern of his breathing. She rolled on her side once more, facing away from the window and the couch. Her wedding band shimmered in the moonlight. Robert had not called her at all that day. She knew he must be glad she wasn’t home. It gave him a chance to entertain his whores.

What had she thought to find, coming here? Answers. But what kind of answers? Tyrion had warned her against it, had told her to stop looking for the truth. He had told her she might not like it.

The mattress shifted under Jaime’s weight, right behind her. She looked over her shoulder, saw him sit by her side and stare ahead. “What are you doing?”

“Talk to me.”

Cersei sighed deeply, and then switched on the lamp on her bedside. She rolled over, keeping the sheet tight around her waist, fully aware of the nakedness of her legs. It was nothing he had not seen before but… it was not appropriate, not now. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him.

“Start with whatever is going through your head,” he tried, sinking further down and on his side, her perfect, symmetrical reflection.

That was not an easy question. It wasn’t one thought alone keeping her awake, but rather the whole situation. Although, if she had to be honest with herself, one small thing had been nagging her since the very beginning of this whole thing. “Why me?” she asked. “When it came to deciding which one to give up, why did they give  _ me _ up?”

It was not really self-pity, as it was righteous entitlement. Whenever she looked at Jaime, she saw herself. Taller, maybe, broader, but herself all the same. They were not that different at all, did not think that differently even, or act. Cersei knew, when they were children, before puberty hit, they must have looked even more alike. So, why had Jaime been deemed worthy enough to stay while she had to go?

“You wouldn’t have been able to carry out the family name,” Jaime explained. “Being a woman.”

“Is that all there is?” she retorted, growing dissatisfied with his explanation. “A family name?”

“It’s more important than you think,” Jaime tried. “Dad always used to say,  _ it’s the family name that lives on _ .”

“And you agree with him?” she asked, harsh. “Am I disposable just because I’m a woman?”

All her life, Cersei had fought with expectations. She had to be pretty, she had to be polite, she had to be gracious and elegant. Never out of line, never too loud or too straightforward. She had been weaned on courtesy and affability, sucked on the tits of high society.

He cupped her cheek. “No,” he said, and Cersei swallowed. “You are not disposable,” Jaime continued. “You are the only thing that matters.”

As time went by, she found it harder to look away. “To you.”

“To me,” he confirmed. “Isn’t that enough?”

It wasn’t. How could she tell him it wasn’t? That she wanted more, that she wanted the world and she would never have it? That she had watched lesser men than her thrive in their mediocrity for the sole reason of the cock between their legs while she, who was worthy, was continuously side-lined? That she felt angry all the time, that she wanted nothing more than scream her unhappiness aloud. She was so tired of being gracious.

“For now,” she lied, nodding.

He smiled. “Come here,” he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer.

She let him. With her face hidden against his chest, she felt safe and loved. Her nostrils filled with the smell of him, and her fingers grazed the skin of his pecs. He was warm, solid marble to hold onto. She still hated him for whichever secrets he withheld from her, but perhaps she could let it go for one night.

For one night, she could focus on the way his fingers trailed up and down her spine over the fabric of her blouse, soothing her. For one night, she could relish the way they fit together, curves and nooks and sharp angles. For this one night, she could-

“Jaime?”

“Yeah?” he mumbled into her hair.

She tilted her head, looked up into his eyes. He did the same, looking down. Propped on her elbow, she leaned in, brushing her lips against his once. He was staring, wide-eyed, petrified. Cersei did it once more, this time she let her lips linger longer. Her hands found his sides and his settled firmly on the small of her back. Against her skin, she felt him quiver, anxious, at a loss for words. So she kissed him again, and this time he reacted swiftly. He grabbed her by the wrists, forced her on her back, pinned her arms above her head, hovering.

“Don’t start something you have no intention of finishing,” he growled. His breath was laboured, his eyes were hooded, a deeper shade of green. He had put most of his weight upon her hands, knowing the most dangerous thing in the world would be to let her loose now.

“Jaime.” It came out as a whimper. Cersei hated the need in her voice. “I need this. Touch me.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes shut, and foreheads touching. Trapping both her hands in his left one, he wasted no time reaching between her legs. The moment his fingers caressed her over the lace, she responded with a sharp intake of air, hips bucking up under his touch. His finger pads tiptoed over her mound, tracing the length of her slit, promising but refusing to give. His lips had already found a tender spot near her collarbone.

“Don’t leave any marks,” she said, feeling his teeth nibbling the skin. His lips curved in a devilish smirk at the same time his fingers slipped under the fabric of her panties. “I’m serious,” she insisted, but her objections were cut short the moment he pressed a finger to her clit and started rubbing it. “Fuck.”

“Are you always this wet?” he murmured against her ear. Relentless, he persisted and, with each flick of his fingers, Cersei felt her climax approaching.

“Are you always this good?” she let out, breathing harder, mouth dry.

His grip on her hands was firm, she wanted to hold him, to kiss him, but he seemed determined on getting her off first. His erection strained against his pants, she could feel it pressed against her thigh, promising, teasing. Cersei let her mind wander to what it would be like to be taken by him: his arms holding her, his fingers woven through her hair, his breath hot on her neck. To feel him inside her, and everywhere. To be surrounded and filled.

_ To be whole _ .

She was so close.

A knock at the door.

Jaime’s fingers halted to a stop and Cersei decided she might die right there. Her whole body ached with what she was being robbed of. Her heart was beating furiously, the blood in her veins pumping and giving life to her whole being. Her eyes bore into his, as they waited, perfectly still. His weight was crushing her, but she did not dare ask him to move, desperately hoping to continue what they were doing.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“Don’t move,” she hissed. His grip slackened all the same.

A second knock, followed by a muffled: “Mrs Baratheon?”

Cersei recognized the voice. “It’s Agnes,” she told him.

Jaime was staring at her expectantly. Cersei knew what he wanted from her: for her to tell him to ignore the woman standing outside their room, to resume what they were doing and screw the rest, to let him  _ take her over the edge _ . It was what she wanted, what she craved. But a part of her brain had already switched back on, resumed thinking clearly. And his weight was smothering her with the implications of what was about to happen.

“It could be important,” she said, shaking her head.

The defeat on Jaime’s face was endearing. He rolled onto his back and let her get up. On her way to the door, she turned just in time to see him suck his digits dry. It sent a chill down her spine. “Get off the bed,” she ordered.

Cersei opened the door just a crack, sure to cover her own bare bottom behind the door. “Yes?” she put on a smile.

Agnes looked distressed, to say the least. “Mrs Baratheon, I’m sorry to intrude at this hour but… there’s something.”

“You said you told us everything you remember,” Cersei said, narrowing her eyes.

“I did, but… It’s not me.” Agnes was not making any sense, frankly, and Cersei was growing mildly inconvenienced that  _ this _ was what had gotten in the way of her orgasm. She was about ready to dismiss her when Agnes took a step forward and grabbed her hand. “It’s my mother. She wants to see you.”

Cersei stared at the spot where the woman’s fingers had seized her wrist, vicious. She felt a sudden surge of dread for whatever was ahead. “But your nephew said… She isn’t…”

“That’s the whole point, Mrs., my mother is unwell. I don’t believe she is aware of her surroundings most of the time, and she barely recognizes us anymore. But tonight, when I mentioned you and your brother were in the building… her eyes, Mrs. Baratheon, it’s like they focused on me.” Agnes let go of Cersei’s hand. “Would you come see her? I think she wants to see you.”

Cersei glanced over her shoulder, inside the room, where Jaime had just put on a pair of trousers and looked extremely unsettled by the whole situation.

He shrugged. “Your choice.”

She felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. For the first time, she had begun to question the lengths she would go to in order to find out more about Tywin’s motives. Now, presented a chance to learn more, she was not sure she should take it.

She felt him come up behind her, and his proximity helped. “We’ve come this far,” he said, brushing her arms gently. “Might as well hear all the loons in the bin.”

He was right.

“Alright,” she told Agnes. “What was your mother’s name again?”

“Magdalene. But we call her Maggy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> Jaime looked feral, a wounded lion. Cersei slipped her hand inside his and squeezed. He stared back, puzzled. 
> 
> “We have each other, right?” she asked.
> 
> “We do,” Jaime did not need to think on it long at all.


	22. the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which... the truth, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! Here we are again, with a new chapter. Which is titled "the truth". Which is... just that. The truth. A lot is riding on this, hence why I'm a little nervous to post it. Hope you like it, hope you find it at least convincing, hopefully even satisfactory. The bad news is: I finally know how and when Perihelion is going to end. I wil lgive you fair warning when it's real close, so you are able to enjoy the last few chapters. BUT! there is a but! The GOOD news is... struck by divine enlightment, I have a plot for a second installment! I will not publish it right away after the end of Perihelion, I will probably take a couple months' break, but after that... we should be good to go, hopefully.  
> But that's in the future, it makes no sense to worry about that now when there's still SO MUCH that needs to happen!  
> Love you all, thank you for reading, commeting, and all around loving this story which has become very dear to my heart. As have all of you, quite frankly.   
> A particular thank you to Nadia, for being terribly supportive: your friendship means a great deal to me. <3 Sei certezza.  
> Without further ado...   
> I'll see you at the end for a little spoiler of what's to come!  
> f.

_ Dead woman walking _ . Cersei could not quite shake off the sensation, as she followed Agnes down the corridor. Jaime had not left her side: he kept looking around, ready to pounce. She could perceive his discomfort all the way to her bones. There was something about the storm raging outside. Every now and then a lightning bolt would lit up the hallways they passed by.

She felt anxious. Why was she anxious? An old woman could not harm her. An old woman could not do anything at all. Besides, she had Jaime; he would not let anything happen to her.

Agnes was antsy, continuously looking back to be sure they were following.

Jaime leaned in to whisper in her ear: “Are you sure about this?”

Cersei was not sure about anything anymore, yet she nodded, showing off her unfaltering purpose. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”  _ You find out the truth, _ she answered herself. Jaime sighed and gave up his attempts.

Agnes smiled at Cersei. “Thank you for agreeing to do this,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t have asked if this was not… positively extraordinary.” Cersei returned the smile, though anyone might have noticed how strained and uncomfortable it was. “She has never… Dear God, I cannot remember the last time my mother looked me in the eye instead of just… staring off into space.”

She sounded excited. Cersei could not share that sentiment: something about a senile woman returning from her haze just upon hearing her name mentioned… it did not sit well with Cersei. Or Jaime, she knew.

“Can you walk me through what happened?” Jaime asked Agnes. “As in, what exactly she responded to?”

Agnes paused. The three of them had reached the elevator and were now waiting in front of its doors. “Nothing much at all, really.” They entered the elevator, watched the woman pressed the button for the top floor. “We live here,” Agnes explained, before proceeding with her tale. “I had just finished my shift, and I was feeding her because, well, she can’t feed herself really. I started telling her about the two of you. I always try and talk to her, but I’m used to her never listening, least of all replying.”

Cersei and Jaime exchanged a look.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Agnes said. “I’m not making this up.”

“What exactly did you tell your mother?” Jaime insisted on knowing the details. Cersei was grateful for his presence. She could not quite think straight.

“I asked her if she remembered Mrs Joanna. She didn’t even blink,” the elevator doors slid open to a smaller floor, with only one door. “This way,” Agnes stepped out first, motioned for them to follow her. A key dangled from her fist. “So I said, ‘ _ Ma’, Mrs Joanna’s children came by today, _ ’ and her eyes went like… wide. And she said something like… numbers, I don’t know.”

“Numbers?” It was the first words Cersei had spoken in a while.

“Yes, it was something to do with numbers.  _ One and two _ , maybe?  _ One in two _ ? I am not sure. I cannot really make out  _ all _ the words she says nowadays.” The keys jingled in the keyhole as she unlocked the door. “She just kind of… mumbles.” She let them in.

The apartment was not that much different from their room, but it was bigger. The photographs hanging on the walls made for a warmer welcome, though. Cersei studied some of the pictures as she lingered in the hall, unsure on what to do next. There was a woman in those pictures, whom Cersei assumed must be Agnes’ mother.  _ She looks like an old frog _ .

A small lamp was on, in the saloon. The television was on mute; on the screen, Cersei saw the news. Robert, her own husband, stared right back at her, waving from a podium where he had just given yet another of those great speeches that young interns wrote for him. Then she noticed the shape slouched on the loveseat.

“Mama?” Agnes whispered, crouching at her mother’s feet. “Mama?” Again, but this time she tried shaking her gently.

Cersei heard a noise coming from the crone, something indiscernible. Weak, feeble. It seemed to come from another time.

Cersei circled the armchair to have a view of what was happening. The woman’s face was blank, her eyes empty. In the black of her pupils, she could see the images playing on the television screen.  Jaime grabbed her hand, tried to hold her back.

“Mama, would you like to meet them?” Agnes asked, reaching a hand out for Cersei.

Like a moth to a flame, Cersei stepped into the light of the lamp, her hand sliding out of Jaime’s grasp.

The woman didn’t even lift her head. Her eyes were trained on the television screen, unfocused. Cersei was sure she wasn’t even really watching what was happening, nor understanding. She only seemed to follow the lights and colours, like she was watching a beautiful butterfly. Yet her hands were clenched over the blanket that kept her legs warm, and her knuckles white.

“Agnes, is she-”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I swear to you, she wanted to see you. I have never seen her so agitated, and now it’s like…”

“…like no one’s home,” Jaime murmured. Cersei shot him a look, and Jaime shrugged. “What? Come on, this is useless. Let’s go back,” he tried, wrapping his fingers around Cersei’s elbow.

The woman let out a noise, halfway between a moan and a groan.

“Come,” Agnes insisted, motioning for Cersei to come closer. “Let her see you,” she beckoned.

Cersei swallowed and mimicked Agnes, crouching down. From down there, she could see the woman even better. All the wrinkles that plagued her face, the white, messy hair in a crochet; she slid a hand over her clenched fists. “Maggy?” she murmured.

The woman turned her head ever so slowly. Cersei’s stomach was knotted. It scared her, but she didn’t flinch.

“Mama, see?” Agnes said, enthusiastic.

“Wanuhftoo,” mumbled the old woman.

Cersei squinted. “What?”

“Wan-Wanuhftoo…”

It made no sense. “Is it another language?” Cersei asked Agnes. “Does your mother speak other languages?”

“Not that I know of,” Agnes tried.

The woman’s eyes had not left Cersei. She was watching her closely, though it was difficult to tell her intentions and feelings what with how scrunched up her face was. Then, Cersei yelped. White claws had grabbed her by her collar, pulled her in. Jaime had stepped forward, but Cersei had held a hand up to stop him. Agnes herself had fallen on her ass, backwards, and was now looking on, unsettled.

The old woman’s lips moved fast, “One of two,” she hissed. “I told you. Only one of two.”

Her legs were shaking; her fingers closed around the crone’s thin, frail wrist and tried to free herself. For such an old woman, she was strong, and relentless. “I’m not  _ her _ ,” Cersei hissed. “Let me go.”

The woman’s dark eyes widened further, and Cersei could have sworn they were suddenly filling up with tears. Her mouth was trembling as well, as did her hands as she let go, ever so slowly. “I told her,” she repeated, nodding to an invisible memory, “I told her. I told her. I told her.”

_ One of two. _

“Cersei,” Jaime’s voice, his hand on her shoulder.

“Wait,” she hissed, batting his hand away and addressing the old woman once again. “Why did you tell her that? Maggy?” Her voice sounded commanding. Maggy was retreating into herself, and Cersei could not let her do that. “Tell me!” At her bellowing, old Maggy let out a wail and tried to sink into the leather, as if shielding herself from Cersei’s accusations. Cersei herself thought it was a pitiful sight, but she did not intend to let go. “I said, tell me!”

Jaime grabbed her by the shoulders, forced her on her feet and dragged her away, “That’s enough!”

“I need to know,” she struggled, but he refused to let go of her. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezed her tight. “Jaime, let me go, I need to know!” She was yelling now.

Behind them, Maggy was still wailing loudly, and Agnes was trying to soothe her by singing a tune, a soft lullaby of sorts.

Cersei tried to free herself once more, but his hold was stronger. She grabbed fistfuls of his jacket, buried her face in his chest, breathed in deeply. He was whispering in her ear, “It’s alright,” and more, “Calm down. Calm down.”

Her cheeks were wet. At some point, in the chaos that had ensued, she had started crying. Somehow, he had managed to put out the fire inside her before it was too late. With one hand, he held the back of her head, cradling her, while the other drew invisible patterns on her back.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling her with him in a protective embrace.

Cersei wanted to stay but Cersei also wanted to go. She did not feel safe in that room. In the woman’s eyes she had seen a reflection of herself she did not like. What had the woman meant,  _ one of two _ ? Had she told Joanna she could only have one child? That she should choose between the children she was carrying? And most importantly, why had Joanna believed it? Had her mother been so terribly weak that she had believed the words of a crazy frog?

As she followed her brother across the room, she dared to look back, where the old woman’s eyes were following her, big and frightened. Silent, Maggy shook her head  _ no _ . Cersei fell behind, and Jaime put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her away with him.

 

* * *

 

Jaime had not wanted to waste another minute in that place. He was angry, Cersei could tell by the way he had gathered what little stuff they had brought with them, scattered across the room. Agnes had tried to apologise, but Jaime had not wanted to hear any of it. He had made her promise not to speak of what had happened that night, ever. And Cersei thought she looked frightened enough to abide.

The clock had barely struck midnight when they left Mercure Hall. Most of the ride was silent. Jaime was focused on the road ahead, but Cersei knew his mind was elsewhere. As was hers. Neither had mentioned the old woman’s words ever since they had left that place, but Cersei was sure neither would forget them anytime soon.

_ One of two _ .

Why had she told Joanna that? Clearly, she had meant to advise her to pick only one of the children she was carrying. But why was that? And again, Cersei was forced to ask herself, why  _ her _ ? She looked outside the car window, the road was enveloped in darkness, but she could make out the desolated surroundings. Naked trees on their way to springtime and lonely houses, windows like eyes. The whole world had stopped; the whole world was watching them.

A low noise drew her attention back to Jaime. He was tapping a finger on the steering wheel, repeatedly, insistently. Nervously.

She studied his chiselled profile, his furrowed brow, his strong jaw, and resisted the urge to touch him. “Jaime-”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, lifting a hand. “I can’t believe we even  _ went _ there.”

Cersei’s defences were going up. “ _ You _ said we should go.”

“Oh, don’t put this on me,” he said, angrily. “I never meant to go and listen to the ramblings of a crazy old frog. What I meant was we should… I don’t know, find someone  _ sane _ .”

Cersei frowned. “But we do know more, don’t we?” A pause. She returned her watchful stare on the road ahead. “Whatever the hell that was.”

Jaime did not answer. Then again, what could he possibly say? In the months she’d known him she’d come to regard him as a saviour, but the truth was he was just as defenceless as her when it came to the ghosts of their parents. Had Jaime ever truly known their father at all? And with Joanna’s death so early on, certainly she must be a mystery for him as well. Cersei felt sorry for him. Reality as he knew it must be crumbling before his very eyes.

Cersei closed her eyes for a beat. She just wanted to rest for a moment.

A moment, only.

The early light of dawn caught her by surprise when she woke up. It was barely there, a soft glow on the horizon, making its way upwards to replace the black blanket above their heads. She groaned, looked at the time. 4.30 am. “I fell asleep?”

“Either that, or you’ll go down in history for the shortest coma.” Jaime still had a hard expression, but there was a renewed determination in his eyes.

Cersei frowned. She did not recognize her surroundings. “We should be in London,” she stated. “This is not London.”

“We’re not going to London.” Jaime pointed his finger up at the sign they were driving by.

Cersei squinted. “ _ Norwich _ ?” Since Jaime didn’t care to elaborate, Cersei insisted. “Why on Earth are we going to Norwich, Jaime?”

“I want to know the truth,” he said, simply. “I’m tired of knowing only bits and pieces. I want the whole story.” He shot her a sideways glance. “And you need it too.”

Cersei swallowed. “We’re going to see Kevan, aren’t we?”

In that moment, her eyes caught a glimpse of the vast expanse of blue water ahead of them, in the distance.  _ The sea _ . Suddenly, Cersei thought of mermaids. The surface was perfectly still, a mirror in which the stars reflected before their departure.

 

* * *

 

Positioned upon the Norwich cliffs, Kevan and Dorna’s house was nowhere as big as Casterly Rock or Storm’s End, but it was still much bigger than most ordinary people might need. It brought to mind Cersei’s academic years, and all those Roman philosophers with their villas overlooking the sea. It had a Mediterranean architecture, something that would not look out of place on the Amalfi coast, or Greece even.

The breeze coming from the open water was messing up her hair and Jaime’s, as they waited on the porch, Jaime’s thumb pressed against the speakerphone for more than a minute now.

“You’ll wake up the whole household,” Cersei warned.

“Frankly, I don’t give a fuck.”

The dark circles under his eyes spoke loudly of the terrible night they had spent. Jaime had not slept a wink, behind the wheel.  _ He’ll pass out _ . She was mildly concerned for him.

A thundering voice at the door. “Coming! Coming! Gracious Lord!”

Cersei recognized it immediately as her Uncle Kevan. She had yet to bring herself to using those familiar terms,  _ uncle _ . He was a stranger to her, same as Jaime had been until not so long ago. The door opened  and, upon seeing them, Kevan did not greet them. He did not close the door, either. He did not move. There, on the threshold, wrapped in a woollen night robe, he looked defeated.

“We’ve been to Hull,” Cersei said, cutting to the chase.

“So I’ve been told,” Kevan said. Cersei didn’t bother asking who had told him, if the newspapers had gotten wind of their trip. It didn’t matter now. “Well, come in then,” Kevan said, retreating inside the villa, leaving the door open.

Jaime looked feral, a wounded lion. Cersei slipped her hand inside his and squeezed. He stared back, puzzled. “We have each other, right?” she asked.

“We do,” Jaime did not need to think on it long at all.

Kevan awaited them in the fancy saloon. In his robe, he was trying to stoke baby flames in the fireplace. Hearing them walk in, he gestured towards the sofa. “The house staff is not  _ in _ the house, see,” he complained. “It  _ is _ the middle of the night.”

Cersei glanced outside. Beyond the curtains, she could see a slice of morning make a timid appearance above the sea. The sky was not quite as dark anymore, but a shade closer to a vivid turquoise where night and day met and traded places.

“You saw the frog, didn’t you?” Kevan said, eyes fixed on the embers.

“We did,” Jaime said. “No thanks to you.”

Kevan turned to Jaime, livid. “What did you expect me to do?” he hissed, angry. “It’s preposterous. Would you have believed me?”

“You could have tried us,” Jaime snapped back.

Cersei chimed in. “What happened?” Kevan didn’t reply for a while. Cersei stepped forward. “ _ Uncle _ .” It was the first time, and Kevan looked somewhat stricken. “What did the woman say?”

Kevan sighed and sat down on the nearest armchair. “It was Lancel, wasn’t it?” he asked, one last attempt at postponing the inevitable. Cersei nodded. “That boy is so gullible. I blame his mother. She shelters him too much. He doesn’t have any willpower.”

_ Always blaming the woman.  _ Cersei smirked. “He doesn’t have any willpower because he’s a man,” she disagreed. “You’re easy targets.” Kevan looked away, and Cersei could have sworn his cheeks had reddened. She could also feel the warmth of Jaime’s body standing close to hers, feel the vapours of his jealousy.

Eventually, they sat down on the couch opposite Kevan.

“That woman in Hull,” Kevan began with a blank face, lost in thoughts of a faraway past. “There were rumours about her. Some said she was a fortune-teller, some even said she was a witch. Me, I always thought she was a fraud and nothing more. As did your father.” He poured himself a glass of water, not offering any to Jaime and Cersei. “But your mother was… curious. Intrigued. She convinced your father to have a… reading of sorts.”

Cersei’s mouth was completely dry. “She told them to choose one child.”

“That’s not… that’s not it.”

“But she said it,  _ one of two _ ,” Cersei turned to Jaime for reassurance. “That’s what she said.”

“Oh she said that, but she wasn’t asking your mother to choose.”

“Then what did the old cunt say,” Cersei said, fists clenched in her lap, on the verge of losing what little patience she had left.

Kevan took a deep breath, drank from his tall glass of water and Cersei couldn’t help loathing the flare for dramatics. “She foretold one child would kill the other.”

There was a long pause after that. Cersei was suddenly very much aware of Jaime sitting beside her, and she was sure the feeling was mutual. But neither turned, nor said anything for a long while. The only noise was the crackling in the fireplace and the ticking of a clock in the adjacent room. The sky outside kept getting lighter and lighter as the minutes passed.

“My mother wasn’t stupid,” Jaime argued, suddenly, sitting up straight. “She never would believed such a thing.”

The voice that answered was not Kevan’s. “She didn’t.”

Cersei sought the source of those words. Eventually she found it in the short woman that lingered halfway down the staircase that led to the bedrooms. Her soft, brown curls tumbled down her shoulders, dishevelled. She too wore a long winter nightgown, and slippers. Dorna continued her descent, until she halted at Kevan’s side, placing one hand on the armchair.

“Sorry for waking you up, Aunt Dorna,” Jaime said. Cersei could hear the exhaustion in her brother’s voice.

“It’s no trouble,” Dorna said, her eyes focused on Cersei. “I told Kevan he should tell you the truth, and that you wouldn’t have had peace until you knew the whole story.” Then she focused on Jaime. “You’ve never been one to just let things go, Jaime. Remember  _ Snuffles _ ?”

Cersei was confused. “What’s snuffles?”

Jaime smiled a small smile. “Snuffles was my dog. At some point Dad told me Snuffles had been hired as a police dog and that I could no longer see him because he had to train hard and save people.” Jaime chuckled. “I was eight years old and I marched down the nearest police station demanding they give back my dog.” Jaime shrugged. “Eventually I found out Snuffles was run over by a drunk driver, and Dad simply did not want me to mourn him.”

Cersei was tired. “No offense to your childhood pet, Jaime, but this is not why we’re here,” she turned to Dorna. “You say she did not believe it, yet they ended up giving me away all the same.”

Dorna and Kevan exchanged a look. Cersei couldn’t take any more secrets.

“Pregnant women can be overly sensitive at times, Cersei, it’s just how it is,” Dorna continued. “Joanna was the strongest woman I knew. Yet, the thought of her children hurting each other… I think she could never quite shake off what happened that night, and what that woman had told her-”

“Tywin tried to talk her out of it.” Kevan had kept mostly silent during Dorna’s explanation, yet he felt the need to say his piece. “And for a while he really thought he’d managed, that things had gone back to normal.”

Dorna, by her husband’s side, nodded in agreement. “Yes, for a while Joanna acted perfectly normal. The rest of her pregnancy was quite alright, if you ask me. Then again I was never your mother’s confidante, if she had doubts over the course of her pregnancy she never told  _ me _ .”

“I don’t understand,” Jaime said. “If she did not believe the old woman, what…” Dorna looked down, and Jaime trailed off. Cersei felt uncomfortable. She felt there was more to it, and her guts told her she wouldn’t like it.

Kevan tilted his head to look at his wife. “You said they should know the truth,” he said, spiteful. “Go ahead, then. Tell them.”

Dorna was quite clearly uncomfortable, yet she put on a stern face and just blurted it out. “It happened during childbirth. Your umbilical cord was choking her, Jaime. For the longest minute, she couldn’t breath. They thought she might be stillborn. It took the doctors a while to revive her. She was so tiny and frail. I was there. I saw it. Her face was blue.”

_ She’s talking about me like I’m not here _ . And in a way she wasn’t.

“But she didn’t die,” Jaime said. His voice trembled. Cersei didn’t have the courage to look at him.

“She didn’t,” Dorna conceded.

“Idiocies,” Kevan bellowed, standing up in a haste. “Complications during childbirth happen! And she just…”

“Kevan, shut up, for God’s sake,” Dorna said, unexpected. “You don’t know what it was like. Joanna was terrified, she was crying, she kept screaming. To have a child and feel it slipping through your fingers? You never forget that.”

Cersei barely registered any of those words, not truly. Her thoughts were piling up, and she had trouble breathing. Jaime was just as silent, deep in his own recollections of a life not lived. Cersei realized what she should feel: afraid, scared  _ of  _ him. That was what the old woman had tried to tell her, hadn’t she? They wanted her to kneel under the weight of those fears.

She did not fear Jaime.

She loved him.

“What about Tywin?” Cersei asked, shutting up the voice in her head.

“The betrayal,” Kevan murmured, shaking his head. “The deception.”

Cersei turned to Dorna, questioningly. “What’s he talking about?”

“They told Tywin only one twin had survived,” Dorna said, with what sounded like a final tone. “He never knew, Cersei.”

“Well, not until it was too late,” Kevan chimed in. “On her deathbed, Joanna decided to confess what she had done. Tywin found the Reynes then, he found  _ you _ . By then, Tyrion was born and Joanna was dead and Tywin’s light was gone. Eventually he decided your place was in a house where you would have a mother who would love you more than he ever could.”

The room was suddenly too hot and suffocating. Cersei wanted to jolt and leave.

Dorna was looking at her now. “She loved you so much, Cersei,” she said. “Your mother. All she did, she did because she thought she was saving you.”

She thought about the sisters she had never loved. The father who had seen her bruises after her wedding night, and looked the other way. The mother who had told her to suck it up. The husband whose scars she would carry forever.

“But she didn’t save me, did she?” Cersei said, standing up.

“Cersei, don’t…” Jaime tried to hold her back.

“No,” she hissed, turning to look at him for the first time. “You don’t get to tell me what to do or what to feel.” Then, to her uncle and aunt. “None of you do.”

The bitter taste in her mouth was getting worse, so she headed out the saloon, crossed the hallways, pushed the door open and walked out into the early morning. The air was cold, freezing, and the sea beneath the cliffs was agitated now.  _ She wanted a storm to match her rage _ . Her lungs burned with each deep intake. She had nowhere to go.

And then… Cersei heard the steps behind her and she didn’t need to turn around to know.

“I would never harm you,” said the voice.

_ I know. _

“And I know you would never harm  _ me _ ,” Jaime continued. Cersei had never heard him as vulnerable. And Cersei thought, everything changed in that moment. “We have each other, don’t we?” he repeated, echoing her words from earlier before.

She nodded. “We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> She could not bear not to see him again. Just the thought of his presence, consolatory, being ripped from her was painful. Physically painful. Like a pang of nausea, and cold sweat and legs quivering.
> 
> Withdrawals.


	23. now what?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she loses it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening everyone! Hope you're having a wonderful day, and if you aren't... hope this can somewhat make it better! This chapter has always been there, in my mind. It's one of the few things I was sure would come, sooner or later. I wasn't sure when, exactly, but I knew it would happen. The time has come. You can have it.  
> Thank you for always being supportive, I absolutely adore each and every one of you!  
> Enjoy the chapter, and I'll see you at the end for a small preview of the next one!  
> xoxo  
> f.

The world did not end. Contrary to what Cersei had felt after discovering the truth about her past, life went on. It was one of those specific instances, when you realize the world does not in fact revolve around you. What they had found out meant… nothing, really. Nothing pragmatic, for either of them. There was no sudden change, no big realization and no great shake-up. All they had found was their parents had flaws of their own, and Jaime and Cersei had paid for those: for Joanna’s gullibility and Tywin’s mournful lack of compassion following the death of the woman he loved.

With it came the sudden void of purpose.

_ Now what? _

Cersei found herself thinking that quite often over the course of the days that followed.

She returned to Downing Street. Robert was not happy with her little escapade. She did not tell him what they had found out during their trip: just that she had needed time with Jaime, that it was a sibling thing.

Days later, she’d lounged in the bathtub for the better part of an afternoon, regardless of her pruning fingers, and the shivers once the water went cold.  _ Now what? _ Yet again.  _ Now what?  _ Cersei knew what came now: life, pure and simple, and with it facing the reality of what was happening between Jaime and herself. As long as they had a ghost to chase, they could look the other way.

All of their ghosts were resting, at last.

They should not see each other again. Cersei knew it was the  _ only _ solution. They would always be drawn to each other. Attractions like the one they shared did not simply go away. It was more than a habit, worse than a vice. Jaime had no control over it whatsoever, and Cersei…

Well, Cersei wanted it as much as he did, if not more. She craved it as much as beggars crave food for their children. She felt like her life depended entirely on it, on  _ him _ . It scared her. She hated being dependent on someone. She had always been… enough for herself. Not happy, not whole. But enough.

He had shown her otherwise. Jaime had proven that it was possible for her to feel… different. Suddenly she was acutely aware of how small she felt whenever he was gone.

Yes, they should not see each other again.

(Briefly she had considered the option of  _ getting it out of their system _ . Speaking from experience, she knew that never worked. It only had the opposite effect. Cersei had lost count of how many times she’d tried to quit smoking and caved because of that way of thinking. It was always going to be a failure.)

She could not bear not to see him again. Just the thought of his presence, consolatory, being ripped from her was painful. Physically painful. Like a pang of nausea, and cold sweat and legs quivering.

_ Withdrawals _ .

She sank into the bathtub, closed her eyes. Downing Street waited outside her locked door, she could hear the footsteps and the everyday noises. It wasn’t a home: it was a fucking graveyard where all her hopes and dreams had come to die.

When she finally returned to her bedroom. She was surprised to find Robert sitting at the end of her bed. He looked up, and Cersei tightened the bathrobe around her body. “What is it?” she asked, on the spot. She did nothing to conceal the hostility in her tone.

Robert did not reply right away. He let his eyes wander down her body, what little the bathrobe showed. When he smiled, it was sad. Cersei frowned; he seemed almost… apologetic.

“You can’t keep running away with him,” he said then, looking up.

“He’s my brother,” Cersei stated simply, to which Robert chuckled. “Just because you hate your brothers, doesn’t mean everyone else must.”

“Careful,” Robert warned. “You don’t get to speak about my family.”

“And yet you seem to have an awful lot to say about mine.”

Robert got to his feet slowly. Cersei knew how to recognize Robert’s attacks, when they came. This was not one. In fact, he did not leap. He just… stood there, looking down at the tips of his feet. He looked like a cumbersome fool.

“We need to work together,” he said at last. “I can’t be caught off guard in public, ever. I cannot be caught in a lie because I don’t know where you are. I am the Prime Minister. Reliability and trustworthiness are key.”

Cersei saw the reality of what he was saying, but the double standards… oh the double standards. “I don’t always know where you are.”

“But people don’t care what you have to say, do they?”

It rolled off his tongue with ease. He had not meant it to hurt her, but it did all the same. No matter what, no one would ever care what she had to say. He was right, she could not fault him for that. His methods may have been rude, tactless. But he was telling the truth of things.

“So,” she said, “what do you propose?”

“I have… asked Jaime to join us for dinner. Just the three of us. He accepted my invitation.” Robert took a step forward, holding a hand out. “I want us to be a family, Cers. I want to make it work.” Cersei frowned. “I’m sorry for… the things I’ve done.”

Standing there, hair wet and her bathrobe damp, she shivered. Robert’s hand was an offer she could not pinpoint. What was he trying to accomplish? What was his agenda, in asking for a truce?

This was not the time to antagonize him. And Jaime would be there, that evening.

She swallowed. “Fine,” she said, but still refused to take a hold of his hand. He got the message and let his arm fall back down his side. “I need to get dressed. Close the door.” Robert nodded, headed for the door and started closing it, but Cersei corrected him. “On your way out. Close the door on your way out.”

Something flashed across Robert’s features, but whatever it was he managed to keep himself at bay. Instead, he offered a small smile, a nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Alone, she let out a breath she did not know she was holding back.

 

* * *

 

The whole place smelled delicious, when Cersei finally left her room much later in the day. She had worn black for some reason; she felt like mourning. What, she did not know. They would have dinner downstairs, in the dining room that was usually destined to important guests. That was the same room where they had dined with the ambassador of Gabon and his wife. It did not feel intimate, nor familiar. It felt strategic.

Robert had dismissed everyone. For the first time, Cersei closed her eyes and heard nothing: silence, blissful and comforting. Downstairs, she followed the delicious smell of roasted meat into the kitchen. Inside, she found the cook and a house cleaner.

“Last ones standing?” she asked.

The cook looked surprised to see her there. “Yes ma’am,” he nodded. “The venison is almost ready. The mashed potatoes are in the second oven, as is the roasted veg. And there’s caramel pudding in the fridge.”

The wench added: “The Prime Minister insisted it should be just you and your guest tonight.”

Cersei frowned. “Well, who’s going to serve the food if everyone’s gone?”

The cook and the maid exchanged a look. The girl made an attempt: “Ma’am, the Prime Minister thought it would look better if you took credit for the venison. For your guest, ma’am.”

“Please,” Cersei snorted, “as if my brother would ever believe I set foot in the kitchen.” Cersei looked around; she had never cooked, not really. She knew how to make fried eggs, for instance, but she had not actually ever  _ made them _ . In fact, when she was a child she liked to watch people busy themselves by the stove. It felt… loving. “Just stay for supper. You’ll serve and then you’ll be free to go.”

Both nodded, and Cersei hesitated, wondering if she should thank them.  _ Jaime would thank them, if anything to be sure they don’t spit in our dishes. _ But she was not Jaime.

Her feet brought her to the dining room then. The table had been set for three, but the seating couldn’t be more obvious. Two plates had been set at each end of the table – Cersei supposed Jaime and Robert’s – with the third one, hers, being closer to Robert’s. Cersei could see right through Robert’s intentions. He was showing Jaime that Cersei belonged to him, that he could not take her away from him, no matter how hard they both tried.

Ownership, this was what this dinner was about. What her life had always been about.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

**Jaime Lannister:** _ I’m outside. We can still run. (07.35pm) _

Yes, they could. She could run out the door, jump in his car, forget about Robert and Downing Street and the venison. He would take her some place she’d never been – like Tenerife - and perhaps she could be happy there. Happier, at least.

The doorbell rang, signalling the end of her daydreaming.

It had been three days since she’d seen him. Not much, compared to a lifetime spent apart. Seeing him on her doorstep brought a smile to her face all the same. He looked handsome in his blue suit. He held out a bouquet of red roses.

“Robert will love them,” she deadpanned, smirking.

Jaime stepped in, gave her the flowers and kissed her cheek. “You look ravishing,” he whispered, lips lingering at the shell of her ear.

Cersei knew she should chastise him for that. They’d dropped pretenses the moment he’d licked her clean off his fingers, back in Hull. “I know,” said, smelling the flowers. “Thank you.”

“For the flowers?” Jaime asked, knowing fully well what she was thanking him for. “It’s no big deal, sis.”

“Jaime Lannister,” Robert had just walked out the adjacent room, arms wide open in a welcoming gesture. “Come here, ya big charmer,” he added, pulling Jaime in a short embrace. “Hope you brought an appetite.”

Jaime was uncomfortable. He and Cersei shared a look. “Ehr, I… sure did.”

“This way then,” Robert continued, wrapping an arm around Jaime’s shoulders and dragging him along with him into the dining room. Cersei followed the odd pair, and couldn’t help grinning at how out of character Robert was acting, and how weirded out Jaime must be right about now.

In the dining room, Robert held out Cersei’s chair for her - a gesture which she could not remember the last time he’d made. As soon as they were all seated, he made a big show of kissing the back of her hand. Cersei fought the urge to snatch it away and wipe it clean.

“Wait till you try the venison,” Robert addressed Jaime, “She did it all by herself.”

“No, I didn’t,” she muttered under her breath, unfolding the napkin to place it on her lap. Jaime’s amused look did not escape her, and she made a mental note to tell him to fuck off later.

The table was long enough that Robert could squeeze her hand and Jaime could not notice it.

“Go and get it,” Robert said, very low, so only Cersei could hear it.

It sounded threatening. How on Earth could venison sound threatening? Cersei decided something was not right with Robert, not that night.

She rang the small silver bell and, within a few minutes, the girl from the kitchen was in the dining room, serving the three of them. Robert cast her a side-glance as she accepted her serving.

“Honestly Robert,” Cersei said, loud enough that Jaime would hear. “You can’t expect me to cook  _ and _ serve. Else, sweet Camilla here would be out of a job.”

Jaime chuckled. Robert did not.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was… strained, at best. Robert tried to drag Jaime in endless conversations about hunting – something Cersei knew Jaime did not love, nor was any good at. Political talk was no good either, as Robert had not become Prime Minister for political reasons. For him it had been about who was bigger, who was better. The opponent had been Rhaegar Targaryen when he was alive, and… well, no one after his death. Robert found politics boring, useless. Tyrion had told her how little time he spent in his cabinet, discussing the reforms he had promised, bragged about.

The dessert had just been served, and the last of the help dismissed when Robert had broached the subject of Jaime’s military past.

“You were in the Army, weren’t you?” Robert asked, barely touching the pudding with his silver spoon.

Cersei had never heard about that. Truth be told, she realized there was a void in what she knew of Jaime’s past. A black hole of information he had not seen fit to disclose, and she had not asked about.  _ Silly of me _ .

Fleetingly, Jaime’s eyes went to Cersei for the briefest moment. “Yes,” he said, with the tone of someone who did not care to discuss it any further.

“Ah, a military man,” Robert said, tasting the pudding at last. As he tasted, Cersei knew his brain was working furiously. He swallowed. “Not many of you left, nowadays. Not  _ real  _ military men.”

Jaime’s eyes were fixed on his pudding. “What is a real military man, anyway?” he asked.

Cersei noticed the sadness that crossed her brother’s features then, and couldn’t help but wonder what that was. Of all the things Jaime struck her as, melancholic was not a word she would use to describe him. He lived in the present, stubbornly so. It was one of the things she loved about him. Yet, there it was, a shadow, a doubt, a crack.

Robert let out a laugh. “Ha! You are absolutely right! What  _ is _ a military man? We should ask, shouldn’t we?” Her husband hesitated, then turned to her, to Cersei. “What is a military man to you, Cersei?”

Cersei had barely touched her dessert. She did not like the atmosphere around the table. She could sense Jaime’s uneasiness and Robert’s malice. It could mean nothing good for either of them. “A soldier is a soldier,” she replied, doing her best to change the subject. “This is extremely boring. Jaime, how’s Brightro-”

“A military man,” Robert interrupted her rather rudely, “I guess, is a man of principle, first and foremost. Someone sworn to defend.” He sipped from his wine. “Wouldn’t you say, Jaime? Loyalty is what makes a good military man.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed. It was evident no one would eat the pudding that evening. “But loyalty to whom?” there was bitterness in Jaime’s voice, and a certain amount of hostility.

“To the Queen, for sure,” Robert said, raising his glass in a mockery of a toast, “and the people who act on her behaviour, certainly.”

“Such as the Prime Minister?” Jaime said.

“Such as the Prime Minister.”

There was a long silence. Cersei was at a loss: she was sure something was amiss, something that she wasn’t fully aware of. She hated to see Jaime struggle against Robert, but she could not defend him if she did not know the full picture. And she desperately wanted to see the full picture.

“Robert,” Jaime said, picking up his napkin and tossing it on the table. “I may not be as clever as my brother, but I’m not stupid. Enough of the pantomime. Why have you asked me here, tonight?”

Cersei was frozen on the spot. She wanted to come to Jaime’s aid, but she did not know how. He had walked willingly in Robert’s trap – she had done nothing to stop it. She had never, for once, believed Robert might have a hidden motive. Yet the urge to see him had been so great she had not wanted to let go of the chance.

She felt guilty, she wanted to end it here and now. To stand up, walk Jaime to the door and let him leave, to apologize and tell him she’d see him the next morning. That she would drop by The Rock and they would have lunch, and life would go on. She wanted to do that, but Robert was quicker.

“I need you to stop touching what’s mine, Jaime.”

Cersei looked up at that. She had a vague inkling of what he may mean. Judging by the anger on Jaime’s face, so did he.

“She’s not yours.”

Cersei was watching her brother, knowing him to be volatile and prone to anger. She knew he must be contained, that if Robert prodded long enough Jaime would lash out – he was a lion after all. “Jaime, don’t listen-”

“But she is.” Robert’s hand covered hers. She tried to snatch it, but he kept it there, flat on the table, his own fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. Cersei looked at Jaime, pleading with her eyes not to rise to the bait. His knuckles were white. “That’s what your father told me.”

_ What? _

Cersei turned to her husband, lips parted in surprise. “My…”

Robert looked confident, satisfied with the bomb he had just dropped. How long had he been holding that in? How long had he known? Jaime looked every bit as confused as her. There was pain, there was betrayal, and then there was whatever  _ this _ was.

“You’re lying,” Jaime said.

Robert let her go, yet she could not move.

“You know, deep inside, I am not.” Robert took a spoonful of his pudding, blissfully oblivious of the shift in the room. Perhaps he did not know Jaime as much as Cersei. “So, I’m going to ask nicely. Please, stop touching my things.” He smiled, amused at the anger on Jaime’s face. “Stop… trying to drag her along in your stupid expeditions. Stop filling her head with nonsense about you and your lot. Your father gave her to me.”

_ I am not a thing to be given _ .

“You knew?” Cersei murmured. “All this time, and you knew, and you never said a thing?”

Robert had the decency to look contrite, at least. “He made me swear to never tell you. And I was fine with you not knowing.” Then pride overtook him, and he raised his voice. “Apparently, I was right! Look what happened! The moment  _ he _ told you, you… became a different person. You used to be… not docile, never docile. But tameable.”

Cersei stood up. She could taste bile rising up her esophagus. “I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered. She felt light-headed, dizzy. “Jaime…?” She held out a hand, blindly, to her right, waiting for her brother. He did not make her wait long: soon she heard the scraping against the hardwood floor and the hurried footsteps approaching. When she felt him beside her, she murmured, “I don’t want to be here.”

“Let’s go,” he whispered, holding her by the waist, beginning to pull her with him.

“She’s not going anywhere,” came Robert’s voice, a low threat.

“I’m taking her back to the Rock,” Jaime warned. “With me.”

It all reached her ears with a strange, muffled quality. Like she wasn’t there, not really.

“No, you’re not,” and this time Robert’s voice was not just a void menace. No, this time she felt him grab her by the arm. Jaime held onto her. Like a rag doll, only half alive, she tried to wrench free of Robert’s grasp, but she wasn’t strong enough. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Jaime’s arms suddenly abandoned her, as did Robert’s hand. In a blink of an eye, Jaime pounced, feline. He grabbed Robert by his lapel, pushed him and stepped between him and Cersei. Robert stumbled backwards, taken aback, but only for a couple steps. It took him half a second to recover, and return to a vigilant position.

“Jaime, don’t,” Cersei hissed, wrapping her arms around his waist, trying to hold him back. He wasn’t listening to her, he wasn’t listening to reason. “Jaime, please, let’s go,” she tried again.

Robert took a step forward. “Tell her,” he said then, ominous. “Tell her what you did, Jaime. See if she still loves you, then.”

Cersei shot him a scathing look, tried to step in front of Jaime and get him to look at her. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice beginning to sound panicked. “Let’s go Jaime, please,” her hands were feverish at his neck. He was lost.

“Tell her, Jaime,” Robert said again.

Jaime leapt. In spite of Cersei’s attempts to stop him, he leapt, strong as she was, hurled himself against Robert’s sturdy frame and tackled him. They both fell with a heavy thud. Robert’s head hit the ground, he howled, but it didn’t stop him. Jaime was atop him, straddling him, hands tight around his neck. Robert’s gargles sent a shiver up Cersei’s spine.

“Jaime, stop!” she yelled, this time. “Jaime!”

Her voice distracted him and he turned to look at her: briefly, with the messy hair in his eyes he looked like a child, lost, unsure of what to do next. That mistake lost him his lead. Robert managed to shrug him off, forced him on his back, turning things around. Cersei saw Robert’s fisted hand rise and fall on Jaime’s face. She saw the blood spurt from his bottom lip at the first punch, from his cheekbone on the second one.

_ No _ .

As Robert’s fist rose a third time, she sprung to action. Unaware of her own movements, she threw herself at Robert. She grabbed his arm with all her might, tried to keep him from hitting Jaime again. “Goddamnit, woman,” Robert groaned, and all but pushed her away as you would flick a dead fly. She posed no threat for him. She stumbled, fell back, hit the table with her side as she did and saw searing white behind her eyelids for a moment.

Jaime tried to reach for her, but Robert held him there, on the floor. As she held her side, she saw Jaime’s blood seeping into the wood.  _ Her blood _ . She reached up, for the table, and her fingers closed around something sharp, something cold. Robert hit Jaime a third time. As the beating went on, Jaime seemed to respond with less vigor. Terror had taken hold of her.

She crawled, on all fours, wincing until the pain subsided. That was when Robert’s fourth blow hit Jaime’s jaw. Jaime’s face was bloody, his bottom lip purple.

She stood, on her knees.

Robert never saw it coming.

Never saw  _ her  _ coming.

Her arm snaked around his neck, she held the blade at his throat and sliced. As deep as she could reach. She felt the skin tear, the muscle, she hit the bone. It was swift, yet she felt Robert’s blood spill on her hand, warm, and all over Jaime’s chest. She could not tell which was Jaime’s and which was Robert’s.

Her husband’s attempts at holding his neck were futile. The blood was spilling from the wound, onto his desperate hands, all over his shirt. He fell, sideways, almost graceful. He kicked his legs a couple times, body shaken by singults. He gargled, in the attempt to say something, but his words died inside his sliced throat, flowing out with the blood.

It took some time, but eventually he stopped moving. Cersei was sitting on her heels, looking at what was left of the man she’d married. A carcass, a shell.

Jaime propped himself on his elbows, breathing hard. He groaned, crawled away from Robert’s corpse, spit out the blood in his mouth. Then he allowed himself to look at her. In spite of the black she’d worn, one could see her sleeve was covered in blood, as were her hands.

Cersei glanced down, frowned and dropped the silver knife.

Her heart was thumping in her ears, like it was about to explode.

“Jaime?” she breathed. 

_ Now what _ ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that would be too easy, wouldn't it? ;)


	24. salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they find absolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do believe I will leave the Notes for the end.  
> f.

There was something terribly  _ real _ about being in the same room with a dead body. He had experienced the sensation more than any man should. Everything was suddenly very tangible, very much present within the premises. As he looked around the dining room, he was terribly aware of everything surrounding them, all the things that would need cleaning or removing, or hiding. All the simple ways which could get them caught and arrested. The table: the plates and silverware would need cleaning, to hide even the tiniest drop of blood. The carpet would need replacing, and fast. The floor would be more difficult; wood had a way of absorbing everything, blood was no exception. His clothes, he would need to burn those. And hers as well.  _ Her _ .

He had wiped the blood off his face. His mouth hurt, his lip was still bleeding, his cheekbone might need a stitch or two. His head hurt from the strong blows he’d sustained. His chest felt heavy, like Robert was still sitting on him. The absence of witnesses meant nothing. The whole staff knew Robert Baratheon would host his brother-in-law that night. The whole staff knew it would be the three of them. They had until 5 am, when the first of the help would waltz into Downing Street and start working. They had until then to do everything they could to be sure they didn’t get to spend the rest of their lives in prison.

Tyrion arrived half an hour later. At a loss, Jaime had called him.  _ Something has happened _ , Jaime had said.  _ I’m on my way, _ had been Tyrion’s quick reply. His little brother knew something was wrong. When he arrived in Downing Street he was not alone. Jaime, still breathless and stained in the Prime Minister’s blood, regarded the two men that accompanied Tyrion. One was tall, the tallest and broadest man Jaime had ever seen. He recognized him: Gregor Clegane, Tywin’s  _ dog _ . The other was shorter, and not as well-built, with a smug, pointy face.

“Who-”

“Jaime, you know Gregor,” Tyrion said, pushing past him. “And this is Bronn.”

The man brought a hand to his temple and made a faux salute. “Enchantè.”

Jaime was confused. He needed to say something, to stop them before they saw the body. Tyrion was one thing, but Jaime had not factored in that he would have brought along a squad. Gregor had been Tywin’s man, but Jaime had not seen him since their father’s passing. And Bronn looked… unreliable at best. “Tyrion, can we speak in private before-”

Tyrion did not intend to waste any time. “There’s no time for that. Trust me. Trust  _ them _ . They are the only way we’re getting out of this unscathed.”

Jaime’s breath was shaky, but he tried his best to maintain his composure. “This way,” he said at last, leading them to the dining room. Inside, they halted on the threshold.

Cersei was sitting at the head of the table, in Robert’s place. She looked up, moderately surprised at all the people crowding the doorway. She looked incredibly calm, poised when she spoke. “Are we throwing a party?”

“Apparently,” Tyrion said, eyes falling on the motionless body on the floor. Then back to Cersei: “Are you alright?” Cersei didn’t reply; her mind seemed to be elsewhere. Jaime had been worried for her ever since Robert had dropped dead. She was retreating inside, putting up a wall. He would rather she shake and cry, than whatever  _ that _ was.

Tyrion seemed to feel the same. He pulled at his sleeve, made him crouch. “I think you should bring her home, to the Rock,” he said, eyes fleeting to their sister, concerned. “She can’t be here, she’s a ticking time bomb.”

_ A disaster waiting to happen _ . Jaime nodded. “How?”

“Take my car. Gregor will drive me home when this is… dealt with.” He patted his shoulder, hurrying him along. “Off you go.”

Jaime huffed and got back to his feet. He walked up to Cersei, slowly, offering his hand. “Let’s go home,” he whispered. Cersei looked up. For one, short instant he was afraid she would not agree, but she did. All he wanted was to take her in his arms. She was covered in dried blood, as was he. He wanted to wash that blood off her hands and her conscience.

On their way to the backdoor, Tyrion called out for him. “I’m assuming no one’s home?”

Jaime shook his head  _ no _ . “But everyone knew we were here tonight.”

Tyrion sighed heavily. “Don’t worry, I got this.”

Jaime looked at his brother once more; he was extremely grateful for his help. What would he do without him? After everything that had happened, this was proof that Tyrion’s fears were correct. That they were bad for each other. That she would drag him down, and he her.

Wasn’t that precisely what the old frog had said?

_ One of two _ .

 

* * *

 

The canopy, bright red, reminded him of Robert’s blood. He could still smell him on his clothes, but there would be time for that later. Now, lying on Cersei’s bed, he focused on the running water coming from her bathroom. She’d been acting strangely normal, for someone who had just committed the most heinous crime. No matter Robert’s crimes, murder changes you. Murder slithers within your soul and entraps you. But Cersei… She did not seem all that shaken.

_ It’s the shock _ , he told himself. Though a smaller voice told him,  _ she’s done this before _ .  _ And so have you. _

The sudden silence from the bathroom made him sit up. He stared at the door for what felt like ages, until she finally came out, all wrapped up in a fluffy white bathrobe, hair wet and a clean face. She padded across the room, almost ignoring Jaime’s presence. She looked for the phone in her bed and switched it off, then finally acknowledged Jaime’s presence. She stared at him for some time, all the way across the bedroom.

“That wound needs to be cleaned,” she said, looking at the cut on his cheekbone.

Jaime grazed it with his fingertips and winces. “Later.”

“No, not later,” she said, disappearing into the bathroom once again. Jaime heard her rummage through the cabinets, cabinets which he himself had seen to have filled with everything one might need. In fact, she returned with disinfectant, cotton and bandages.

“I think it needs stitches,” she said, lifting his chin to examine the wound. “Don’t think I can do  _ that _ . But we can’t go to the E.R. tonight,” she added, pouring some of the liquid onto a ball of cotton and applying some pressure to the wound. It burned, and he hissed, strong man that he was. “Now now, don’t be a baby.”

He groaned, let her clean the edges of the wound. He was surprised at how light her touch was.

 “You’re worried about me,” she stated, focused on the task. “You don’t have to be. I’m fine. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad I was the one who did it.”

“I know you are,” Jaime said, looking up at her. Every now and then he’d wince and flinch, but she was relentless.

“Shouldn’t I be?” she asked. “I’ve lost count of the times he bruised my skin.” She trailed off. “And that was only the physical violence.” Jaime heard a crack in her voice. She did not need to speak, she did not need to say anything else. “There, all done,” she said, taking a step back as if to admire a masterwork. Cersei sat down next to him, on the edge of the bed. “Are you afraid of me?”

She was staring now, long and hard.

“Why should I be?” he asked.

“Because I murdered someone and do not feel an ounce of remorse over it.”

The way she said it… oh, he would be a liar if he didn’t admit it sent a chill up his spine, a shiver. “I murdered someone too.”

Cersei snorted. “That’s not true,” she said, “I held the knife. You were not involved in any way.”

“I didn’t mean…” Jaime trailed off. “I wasn’t talking about Robert.”

It was time, perhaps, to tell her the truth. If she thought of herself as a monster, then by all means he should prove to her he was not innocent either. Surely, sometimes murder is acceptable if we do it to protect the ones we love. That was what he’d told himself over the course of the past fifteen years, to sleep at night.

“I was 25 years old. I had just graduated the Academy. Prime Minister Aerys Targaryen was at the ceremony.”

He remembered that day like it was yesterday. The sun shining on the white hats of the cadets, the shining swords at their sides. Tywin sitting in the second row, a privilege only given to him because of his friendship with Aerys, back then. He’d missed his mother. Tyrion had been assigned a seat in the last row, where no one would notice him. Jaime couldn’t even see him, in the sea of spectators. His uniform was a bit tight on the shoulders, but he looked like a hero.

He felt Cersei shift in his embrace; she did not pull away.

“I became the head of Aerys’ security detail the following week. The youngest, ever, to be granted such an honour.”

“You must have been good,” Cersei whispered.

“Maybe,” he said, wistfully. “But that isn’t why he hired me. He only did it to spite Father. Remind him he remained a servant, one step below him, and should act as such. That was around the time he began thinking Dad wanted to fuck him over and take his place.”

“Did he?” Cersei asked.

Jaime chuckled. No one had ever known the answer to that. “Anyway, I started working for Aerys. Dad started to see less and less of the Targaryens. They began to grow apart. And Aerys… Aerys began to lose his mind. Even his own family knew he had lost his marbles.” Jaime paused, gave her a moment to absorb every detail. Perhaps it would help her understand. “I was there, every step of the way. For three years, I watched him get worse and worse. At first he was wary of his political adversaries, and that made sense. But then he started to be suspicious of his own party companions. Until…”

He stopped. Cersei was dangling from his lips, hungry for knowledge.

“…until he started to turn against his own family. It started with Rhaella, his wife. He was violent. HE hurt her. Often and badly. I was forced to stand by. Whenever I proposed to do something, people stopped me. So I stood there, and watched as he did what he wanted and took her dignity and pride. I didn’t lift a finger. No one did.”

It resonated with him, now, that Robert had not been that different. That maybe he had been worse, because at least Aerys was mentally ill, whereas Robert was drunk and stupid and willfully cruel to his sister. He tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear.  _ I will never let anyone touch you again _ .

“When his last term ended, the party proposed Rhaegar should run for the Tories. It was the… last straw, I think. He thought his own son was out to get him, that even his own family was plotting to overthrow him. It didn’t help that Rhaegar had just told Aerys he meant to ask for a divorce. By doing that he would severe ties with the Martells, the last family standing to back Aerys. It was messy. He broke Rhaegar’s nose. I did not lift a finger that time either, and Rhaegar was… almost a friend, to me.”

His shirt clung to his chest, Robert’s dried blood clinging to his skin.

“It’s not your fault,” Cersei offered, but Jaime stood up hastily.

“Isn’t it?” he asked. He started to pace, knowing Cersei’s eyes were on him every step of the way. She was there, in the room with him, present in every sense, overcoming him. He was baring his soul to her. “I was supposed to protect them, all of them, wasn’t I?”

Cersei didn’t reply. She did not need to.

“And then one night I… I was standing guard by his office. And around midnight I found him passed out on the desk. And as I tried to wake him I saw files scattered across the surface and… he meant to have them all killed, Cers. He was going to  _ hire _ people to kill his own son. His daughter-in-law. His  _ grandchildren _ . The little one was still nursing.” A pause. “And yet, that was not it. It was not the fact he’d ordered the murder of an infant. Do you want to know what made me act, at last?”

Cersei was silent, she almost could not bear the weight of his stare.

“It was the fact that he wanted to murder  _ my _ father,” Jaime said, final. “He woke up, saw me reading his stuff. He started yelling, tried to grab me but he was old and fat and… he didn’t stand a chance. He collected Persian daggers, you know?”

“I know,” Cersei said. “Everyone knew… the morning after.”

Jaime nodded to himself. “Right.”

“So it wasn’t a burglar, after all,” Cersei went on. “They said it was a burglar.”

Jaime laughed, bitterly. “It wasn’t a burglar, no. It was me.”

He waited for her to say something, anything. As she looked at him, with those big, emerald green eyes, he felt part of a whole. The night was sealing all outs: before this, they stood a chance at recovery. From Tywin and Joanna, from Maggy, from Aerys and Robert. From each other.

Not anymore. Now they were the only cure, the only solution to a problem originated long before they were born.

He walked back to the bed, knelt in front of Cersei and placed both hands over her knees. “Now you know. If you’re a monster, so am I.” She tried to look away, but he grabbed her chin and forced her to face him, to face  _ it _ . “We’re the same, you and I,” he said at last, when she found it hard to say the words she desperately needed to. He smoothed the crease between her eyebrows, as she looked down at him with an almost pained expression. “We’ve always been the same.”

He could not quite decipher what she was thinking. Her face was a puzzle. She cupped his cheek, slid a finger across his neck, then placed her palm over his heart. He could not tell if she was trying to feel the beating of his heart or the warmth of Robert’s blood. Either way, she pulled him in. Opened her legs to make room for him.

At last, she kissed him.

It was not the same kiss they’d shared in Hull a few days earlier. No, that had been hesitant although meaningful. That had been her lips against his and nothing more. This time, she was begging him to take her. He knew by the way her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him into her heat, deepening the kiss until there was no air in their lungs. Her nimble fingers made quick work of his stained shirt, pushing it over his shoulders and revealing the dark red stains in his skin. His hands, feverish, slid up, beneath the white bathrobe, feeling the smoothness of her thighs. He was terrified of overstepping and breaking the spell. One might say he was being cautious, but it had happened before. He couldn’t bear it yet again.

She gave no sign of meaning to interrupt, no, she moaned in the kiss, fingers tangled with his locks, as she perched herself further on the edge of the bed, pressing her body all taut against his. His head was spinning, but he would not waste any time.

He broke the kiss, pushed her back flat onto the mattress. Still kneeling, he pushed her legs apart.

“What-” she tried, but he didn’t give her time to ask.

The sharp intake of breath the moment his tongue found her entrance sent a pointed signal to his cock. It stirred, threatening an inglorious end. She tasted familiar, and that was strange. How long had he craved this, without getting it? Too long.  _ All my life _ . And then she moaned his name, and his eyes snapped shut because his cock demanded attention.  _ Not yet,  _ he told himself, latching onto her clit and sucking like his life depended on it. He teased and teased, tip of his tongue and flat against her, in a dance that his body recognized in spite of never having learnt the steps.

It was natural. He knew what she needed. He felt it.

Her body arched quite suddenly as she approached her edge. All the while he never stopped. He could spend the rest of his life with his head between her thighs and life would be enough. She was holding onto fistfuls of the duvet, knuckles completely white. He smirked, placed a couple fingers at her entrance and toyed with her, promising but not giving quite yet. The muscles of her thighs quivered on his shoulders, telling him she was close.

He slowed down then, replacing his tongue with his lips. He kissed the bundle of nerves, feeling the tension subside and her groan of frustration. He knew she would protest soon, but again he acted before she had a chance to as much as breathe. With both fingers, he probed her core, slowly until buried to the knuckle. He curled them, and as he did his lips never left her. Now and then he’d flick his tongue against her, just to keep her on the edge.

She let out another moan, and he knew he’d found the spot, so he pressed both fingers against it, clamping his lips onto her clit. And he kept doing that, and again, and again, and she squirmed in his grip. He held her hips down with one hand, determined to make her cum with the other. He dared to look up and it was a heavenly sight: she had her head thrown back, her bathrobe in disarray bared a breast, a nipple that looked like the most delicious ever. Oh, he just  _ couldn’t _ wait to take off that goddamned robe.

A gasp, her fingers in his hair to spur him further, her walls clenching around his digits in waves as she came, his name dripping from her tongue like honey. He took everything she had to give, let her sounds fill his ears and her juices cover his tongue. He promised to himself he would never forget this, that even if this was to never happen again he would lock the memory in a box and cherish it forever. It would be his most treasured possession for all the days to come.

He pressed his forehead against her mound, brought his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He was breathing hard, almost as hard as Cersei, as she came down from her height. A hand sprawled on her stomach, he distractedly pulled at the sash that kept the robe together – what little of her body remained covered was now revealed to him in her glorious nature.

He marvelled, brushing his cheek against the curly hair of her cunt. His eyes travelled up her body to the soft, creamy curves of her breasts. Her panting subsided eventually, and she propped herself on her elbows. “That was absolutely criminal of you,” she said.

The playfulness in her voice made him laugh. “I’m not done,” he murmured, kissing her hip. “Far from it.”

He slithered up the length of her body, lavishing every inch of bare skin he found. Her navel, her sides, her ribcage. He pulled the bathrobe down her arms, threw it aside and finally hovered, on all fours, to revel in the sight before him. He’d never seen her like this, and for a while there he’d convinced himself he’d never have her like this. Naked, and open, and  _ his _ . “You don’t know how beautiful you are,” he murmured.

“I do,” Cersei smirked.

He cupped her cheek then. “No, you don’t. You can’t.”

Her smirk faltered. It was like she’d been hit with a might she never knew. Like all of a sudden she’d realized how much he could love her, if only she’d allowed him. Perhaps that was the reason she avoided his eyes and her hands went to his buckle. In that moment he should stop her, make her understand how much he loved her.

But he was also only a man, and when she pushed his trousers and underwear down his legs and wrapped her fingers around the length of him he stopped thinking altogether. Her hand was warm, soft. Her grip was not. Jaime could have lost himself in her.

She hooked a leg above his hip and dragged him down on her. His weight didn’t seem to bother her, as she positioned his cock at her opening. Maybe it was heat radiating from her, or the prospect of what was about to happen, but he buried his face in the crook of her neck and entered her. Slowly, he felt her adjust to him inch by inch. He heard her gasp when he thrust a little harder.

She fit him like a glove. It must have been one of the perks of being born together, he guessed: one was made to complete the other, to balance out what was missing in between, to fill the spaces and even out the differences. There, inside her, he knew he was at last what God intended him to be.

The intensity of it knocked the air out of his lungs. He had not expected it to be this way. If he moved now, it would be over. If he moved now, inside her, it would be over before it even began.

“Wait,” he murmured into her skin. “I need to… wait.”

He kissed her shoulder, lazily. Her neck. She sighed when he sucked her earlobe between his teeth and nibbled at it. Her hands were stroking his back, and it felt blasphemously maternal of her. When he pulled back, her lips were parted and her eyes seemed to twinkle. Did she feel the same? Was she quite as taken aback as he was?

She must be, because her lips turned upwards, the ghost of a smile. He smiled wide, dove to kiss her full, capturing her lips in a seal of devotion. Her fingers dug into the skin of his back, and he moved in her. It was hard to keep it steady, hard to fight the urge to just fuck her senseless. He felt careful and cautious around her, inside her. He was afraid she would break: she’d been broken before, by worse men than Jaime.

He hated that he was not her first. He should have been her first. He should have claimed her, his, his  _ his _ , only his.

He held onto her shoulder for dear life, a desperate attempt to keep himself grounded. It didn’t take long and she was moaning again, and Jaime felt invigorated. His hips snapped forward and her fingers dug deeper. He couldn’t shake off the feeling he was getting to know her, truly. He liked how her breath got stuck in her throat when he fucked her harder, and how she purred when he fucked her slow. He liked how she held onto him, how the sweat formed on her collarbone and the valley of her breast, He liked to suck her nipples in his mouth and feel her claws pull him closer, begging him not to stop. “Harder,” she’d whisper when he picked up the pace. “Fuck me harder, Jaime,” heels digging in his buttocks.

He acted out of instinct then, did what his body commanded – or was it hers? He pulled out, quickly, and rolled her over. Then he grabbed her by her hips until she was on her hands and knees. He didn’t wait for a word, he didn’t need to. He entered her again, finding no resistance whatsoever. It was smooth, wet, welcoming. It was easier to fuck her the way she wanted him to – he could tell by how loud her moans were getting. The more he fucked her, the more she fucked him in return, meeting each thrust in kind.

_ I won’t last long _ . The thrilling tickle at the back of his spine was telling. He wanted her right there with him, when he did. Before, if he managed. He wrapped one hand around her neck and pulled her torso up against his. The other one he slid between her legs where he found her most sensitive spot again.

When her inner walls clamped around his cock, he knew it was over. She came and he let her fall back on all fours. With what was left of his strength, he kept going until he could no longer. He pulled out. With a groan and a few more pumps into his hand, he spilled on her back.

He fell onto the mattress, right beside her. She too had crumbled on her stomach. Her eyes were closed, her hair sprawled onto the cuchion. He could see his own seed glistening over the expanse of her back. Her panting mixed with his, as they recovered in silence. Her lips were parted, his chest rose and fell with the exertion. Jaime didn’t need to put his ear against her chest to know their hearts were beating in unison.

“We should call Tyrion,” she said, eyes still closed.

Jaime snorted. “I’m mildly offended that was the first thing you thought about after that.”

Cersei opened her eyes at last. “We should call Tyrion and ask him about Robert.”

Jaime sighed. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

Cersei reached into the bedside drawer, found tissues and handed them to Jaime. “Clean up your mess.” The Cheshire grin on her face dissipated any doubts he might have about what she was feeling. He wiped her back clean of his seed, bunched up the tissues and threw them in the trash. When he was done, he slapped and bit her ass cheek. She squirmed, laughing. “Stop that.”

He found it hard to keep his hands to himself, not when she was there for him to touch, kiss, smell, taste. He wanted to fill his senses with her, reach capacity and let it overflow. He could never go back, not now, not after he’d had her.

He peppered small kisses across her shoulder, all the way to her neck, where she pushed her hair aside. Soon enough he would want her again.

“And what happens when tomorrow comes?” she murmured.

That gave him pause. There was a sadness in her voice, an atrocious awareness that what was right for them behind closed doors was wrong for everyone else in the world, under the sun. “Nothing will change,” he mumbled against her shoulder blade. “We lock the door.”

“They’ll come looking for us,” she said. He heard a smile in her voice.

“Let them,” he said, vivacious. He pulled back, pushed her hair back from her face and draped his arm lazily over the small of her back. “I don’t care.”

Cersei tilted her head, unable to hide some amusement. The exertion looked good on her, she was glowing. Jaime could not tear his eyes from her, all filled up with memories of only seconds before. He’d never seen someone as beautiful as her.

“Would you have killed him?” she asked suddenly, head propped on her hand.

Jaime slid a hand down her spine and back again. “Yes.”

“For me?” she pressed on.

“Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

He paused. Pushed her on her back. Spread her legs again and entered her again.

“Completely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
> 
> So, I have a small bit of news which you probably will not like. As of today, I am officially on Christmas hiatus. You will probably say "Girl, it's December 2nd, how are you on Xmas hiatus already?" but the thing is, December will be hectic at the office, so chances are I will not have much time to write during the week. And since I will not be home on the next two to three weekends, I really won't have time to update weekly. I will, however (and it's a pinky promise), publish a chapter on December 25th, as a sort of Christmas present to everyone that has been so kind to me over the past few months. I really do cherish everyone here.  
> The hiatus will end on January 7th, and we'll go on from there with the LAST FIVE CHAPTERS. Yep, you heard that right. Unless I change my mind for whatever reason, there's stil SIX CHAPS LEFT (including the Christmas one). Be sure not to miss them!  
> I will see you on Christmas day! Much love to everyone.  
> f.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> You thought I wouldn't give you a NEXT ON, huh?  
> Here it is!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT ON PERIHELION:
> 
> Cersei looked back at him, shell-shocked. Then, slowly, her face lit up and she laughed. 
> 
> It was the most beautiful sight Tyrion had ever seen.


	25. the witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tyrion doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO, YOU LOVELY SOULS. Happy holidays and merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it! Hope you're spending it with people who love you and cherish you. That's what matters most. And if you are not, I hope this can warm your day a little bit. Fandom means community. It means no one is alone. Hope reading this can make your day better, and if it's already going great... well, why not end on a Lannister note!  
> Enjoy!  
> f.

Getting the corpse outside of Downing Street was not easy, and it took all of Tyrion’s cunning. His siblings had been lucky, in a sense: Robert’s idea to send out the house staff had eventually been in their favour. Bronn had taken care of the surveillance cameras and the guards outside the apartment, distracting them for long enough to let Gregor carry the body out and drop it inside the trunk of his car. Tyrion had called a friend of his: her name was Ros, she had flaming red hair and a thoroughly respectable activity. Officially. The fact that her wellness center was only a façade was the worst kept secret in London, because it suited them. Everyone knew Ros and her girls: bank managers, judges and prosecutors, people high up the chain of command. Tyrion himself liked to go there from time to time. He liked Ros. She was a good sport. She was also a good fuck, but that was a whole other story.

The plan was simple, and time was essential. They would find Robert Baratheon’s body in Ros’ establishment, in the middle of the night. A girl, shaken and in tears, would tell them a tale of how the Prime Minister was drunk and growing more and more violent by the minute. She would tell them he threatened her with a gun – which Tyrion had extracted from Robert’s desk and placed near the body. She would admit she had feared for her life, and had been forced to act as self-defence.  The girl may have to spend a few months in prison – she would be rewarded plenty for her sacrifice. As would Ros, for her discretion.

For the best part of the night, they had cleaned the place – blood was tricky, but Bronn and Gregor were thorough. Tyrion watched them clean every inch of the floor. He grabbed the knife himself, decided it would be best to clean it carefully rather than have it disappear.

This was different from the Melara Hetherspoon accident. Robert had made that go away – even though, Tyrion was sure, he had  _ not _ done it. Truth be told, his suspects had fallen on Cersei ever since he had heard the news. The events of the night had only strengthened his convictions. His sister had seemed oddly calm for someone who had just slaughtered her own husband.

“Granted, he deserved it,” he had said aloud on the ride back to Casterly Rock. “But she was so… unaffected.”

Bronn had shrugged, behind the wheel. “Hate to tell you this, but…” he trailed off.

“Then don’t say it,” Tyrion said.

“Your sister is kind of a cunt.”

“I said, don’t say it.” In the distance, he could see Casterly Rock. The sun was coming up behind the hills. He just could not wait to catch some sleep – the morning would be hectic. Tyrion’s lips tightened.

No, they definitely could not count on police support this time around. The police answered to Renly Baratheon, and Renly Baratheon would want the culprit of his brother’s death behind bars. Granted, there was no love between the Baratheon brothers, but murder was murder, and it called for vengeance.

The car drove slowly past the gate, up the pathway.

Bronn glanced at the watch. “The police should arrive at Ros’ any moment now.”

“It’s out of our hands from now on,” Tyrion said, opening the door and hopping down the car seat.

Bronn tapped a finger onto the steering wheel. “It will look suspicious, you know?”

“What?” Tyrion asked, exhausted, looking forward to his soft pillow.

“Your sister not being at home the night her husband is murdered,” Bronn continued, looking up at the many windows of the manor. “Some might say convenient.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take, she is a liability,” Tyrion admitted. “I want her where I can see her. Where she can’t do any more damage.”

Bronn scoffed and smirked. “Looks like it won’t be easy,” he said, amused, looking somewhere over Tyrion’s shoulder. “Cinderella is leaving the ball.”

Tyrion frowned. “What-” He turned around in time to see Cersei coming down the steps to the main entrance. She seemed to be in a rush, and to make things worse, she seemed alarmed when she saw  _ him _ . It was typical of people doing something they should not be doing. “Oh fuck no,” Tyrion whispered. “Stay here,” he hissed to Bronn before rushing to his sister’s side. She did not stop walking, and Tyrion had to run to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” she said, eyes up ahead. “If the police come-”

“If they do, we’ll tell them you drove back with Jaime. That Robert wasn’t home and you felt lonely. This is your  _ home _ . We’ll say-”

Cersei halted and Tyrion almost walked right into her legs. She was in pain, not a physical pain, a pain that kept her from making eye contact. “I need to go, Tyrion,” her voice was firm, determinate.

It was only in that moment that he noticed the state of her: her hair in disarray, her face without any make-up. She wore a shirt at least three sizes too big – Jaime’s, – and a pair of sweatpants that fit very loosely. “Raided our brother’s closet?” he attempted to joke.

Cersei did not laugh. 

_ Not in the mood then.  _ Tyrion put on a serious face and insisted. “Stay.” He took a step towards her, took her hand and squeezed a little. “You’re safe here, Cers.”

Cersei let him hold her hand for a few seconds, before she retracted it and looked away. She could not be swayed. It drove him off the wall, not knowing what was going on in that head of hers. With Jaime, it was easy. He’d had a lifetime to learn how to read him. Cersei, on the other hand, was a mystery to him. Reading people was what he did best; it had always been his talent.

“Why are you alone?” Tyrion asked suddenly. “Where is Jaime? Oh my God, did you kill Jaime?”

Cersei looked back at him, shell-shocked. Then, slowly, her face lit up and she laughed. It was the most beautiful sight Tyrion had ever seen. The chilling air of early morning had painted her cheeks pink, and the feeble rays of sunshine making a timid appearance behind the clouds glistened on her mane.

The shimmer in her eyes, when the laughter subsided, did not escape Tyrion. “No… He’s asleep.”

_ Oh _ . He remained silent, as a terrible sense of dread washed over him.

Cersei pressed. “I can’t be here when he wakes up. I don’t want to hurt him.” A pause. “And I don’t want him to hurt me.”

Tyrion offered a tight-lipped smile.  _ A whole lot of hurt making the rounds, tonight. _ “How were you planning to go back to London? On foot?”

Cersei swallowed. “I thought I might call a cab.”

Tyrion snapped his eyes shut. His foreheads were pulsating with a number of emotions: anger, frustration, fear. “Bronn will drive you home,” he said. It was his turn to look away. He could not tell exactly what she was talking about, but he did not like it. He could not shake away the feeling he should not let her walk away. At the same time, he wanted her as far away from his brother as possible.  _ You wrecked us _ . He might have said that, if only she did not look quite as stricken with her current ordeal.

With a deep sigh, he motioned for her to follow him to Bronn’s car. The man was eyeing Cersei, curious. Then he moved his glare upon Tyrion. “You’re about to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

“Please, escort my sister home,” Tyrion said.

“Home as in…”

“Downing Street.”

“…the crime scene.”

Tyrion glared. “If you drive fast you can get there before the house staff,” Tyrion advised, opening the door and holding it for Cersei. As she stepped in, Tyrion never averted his eyes from the man. “Be nice. No funny business.”

Bronn pouted. “You wound me,” he said, starting the engine. “I’m always nice with the ladies.”

Cersei rolled down the window and looked at him expectantly. “Tyrion,” she said suddenly and, for a moment, he thought she might  _ thank him _ . “If the police come-”

“ _ When _ they come,” he corrected her immediately. She should not delude herself into thinking this might be easy.  “You tell them you had dinner with your husband and your brother. You tell them Jaime left around 11 pm, and Robert was visibly drunk. You tell them he left the house and you went straight to bed. If they ask whether Robert was the type of person to frequent brothels, you say yes. You say nothing else, you understand.”

Cersei nodded.

Tyrion stepped back, “Go,” he said, and Bronn drove off, down the pathway, out the gate, to London.

Alone, he felt the weight on his shoulders. He turned around, eyeing the Rock carefully. It looked like a sleeping giant, every window a blind eye, its entrance door a hungry mouth.

With his head hung low, he stepped inside, ready to feed the beast.

 

* * *

 

He woke up later than he’d previously intended to. It was noon when he finally had the strength and the courage to get out of bed and stumble into the bathroom to take a shower. He wished he could scrub off his doubts as easily as dirt, watch them go down the drain and forget them. When he got out of the shower he did not feel better, nor cleaner, nor lighter.

He got dressed paying attention to what he chose, because he knew the day would matter. It was lunchtime when he finally dragged himself downstairs. The first thing he noticed was the house seemed to be empty. He followed the only noise, coming from the dining room. As he approached, he recognized the voices coming from the TV set. A wall of people hindered his view of the room. The whole house staff was watching the news.

He cleared his throat, and they all returned to their chores quite suddenly.

Upon entering the dining room, he saw the back of his brother’s head. He was sitting on the couch, with his back on him. On the television screen, Renly Baratheon was giving a heartfelt speech about justice, and Robert’s legacy, and the police following several leads.

He looked… chipper.

Tyrion walked to the table. Lunch would be ready soon, but he craved breakfast food. “Can I have some scrambled eggs?” he asked a house cleaner, sitting at the head of the table.

“Right away, sir,” the woman said, disappearing out of the room.

While he waited, he watched Jaime for a little while. Tyrion had made his presence heard, and yet he had not even turned his head to acknowledge him, he had not as much as moved a muscle. It was uncharacteristic of him, to ignore him like that.

The face of Renly Baratheon was by footage of the outside of Downing Street, where the reporters were kept at bay by security. Then, that footage was replaced by images of Storm’s End, with a caption that announced Stannis Baratheon would soon have a press conference. The programme went on, with a commentary by a political analyst named Beric Dondarrion, saying Robert Baratheon was a victim of his own vices, and that one could not possibly be surprised of how it had ended.

Tyrion smiled.  _ That is the angle _ . He would remember that name, Beric Dondarrion.

He was served scrambled eggs, and the same woman asked Jaime if he would like his lunch served as well. Jaime shook his head  _ no _ . Then he switched off the television.

They were alone.

“Are you okay?” Tyrion asked just before he put some egg in his mouth.

Jaime did not answer his question. Instead, he stood up and buttoned his jacket. Tyrion noticed he’d had the same thought: he was dressed to the nine, ready for battle. “What do we do?” he asked. His voice was dry. “Should we go to Downing Street?”

Tyrion swallowed a mouthful. “It will look suspicious if we don’t.” Jaime walked around the couch with slow, measures strides. Tyrion followed him with his gaze as he approached and dragged a chair out to sit down. There were a few seats between them, a distance that seemed impossible to cover with words. “Besides,” he said, resuming his breakfast, “I don’t trust Cersei on her own. I want to be there when they question her.”

“How do you know they haven’t questioned her already?”

Tyrion shrugged. “It would be all over the news if they had. Nah, they have Ros’ whole establishment to go through first. She has  _ a lot _ of girls, and Robert knew  _ all of them _ .”

Jaime nodded and looked away. He looked like a child trying desperately to look indifferent. Tyrion would feel sorry for him, if he were not the sole cause of his own discontent. He had warned him, back in Tenerife, when he had started to get a feeling something was not quite right. It had all begun with Addam Marbrand and the fact he could not keep it in his pants. Sometimes Tyrion found himself wondering if things would have been different, if only he had kept an eye on Cersei. Perhaps the switch in Jaime’s brain would not have gone off.

Perhaps he would not have fallen in love with her.

“Have you heard from her at all?” Jaime asked suddenly, eyes still focused on the table.

Tyrion waited, chewing slowly on his food. He knew Jaime was waiting for an answer. He swallowed once more, and then replied, “Not this morning, no.” Tyrion knew he should stop talking now, let the whole thing die and move on. But he could not. “I did, however, see her sneak out early in the morning.” That changed the atmosphere in the room.

Jaime stiffened. “Did she say anything?”

Tyrion hesitated once more. Oh, Cersei had said plenty, and most of it he could not possibly put together or, for the life of him, even begin to understand. The relationship between them did not come quite as naturally as the one between Jaime and Cersei. For Tyrion Cersei was still a question he could not answer. For Jaime, it seemed, she was the answer. Where did Jaime end and Cersei begin? How much could he, Tyrion, say? Was it wise to thread upon their holy ground, and would he come out unscathed?

“She wanted to go home,” he lied. “I had Bronn accompany her.” It was not that he did not want to tell Jaime the truth – it was just more convenient this way. If he were to tell him Cersei was running for fear of heartache, he would run after her, lovesick fool that he was. But if he could somehow convince him she simply did not care, maybe…

It was selfish and, he feared, it may also be useless.

“Very good, then,” Jaime said, but it was low, like he was talking to himself. He got on his feet and headed for the door. “Ready when you are,” he said before leaving the room.

Tyrion looked down at the remains of his scrambled eggs. He felt sick to his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Downing Street was under siege. As the car drove through the reporters, Tyrion noticed a few protesters as well. Robert Baratheon was not well loved, especially not since the Hetherspoon accident. It reminded him of another famous death, Aerys Targaryen’s. People had turned to the street back then as well, shouting loudly for a change. A change which had been Jon Arryn: meek and thoroughly bleak. They had wanted Robert Baratheon too, elected him. Now they cheered his departure like hey had Arryn’s and Aerys Targaryen’s.

_ Once you lose the people, you lose the country. _

Cersei did not welcome them. They found her, eventually, in the cabinet’s room, surrounded by people. Petyr Baelish, Varys the Spider – his sister’s confidante – and some others he did not recognize. No one, Tyrion noticed immediately, from Robert’s entourage. The divide was immediately very visible. Neither Renly nor Stannis were standing by the mourning widow.

Upon their arrival, Cersei’s eyes went straight to Jaime.  _ She doesn’t even know I’m here _ . She excused herself, dismissed her entourage. Varys lingered a while longer after the others had left, but Cersei offered a reassuring nod and he stood up as well. Tyrion had heard tales about the Spider: he knew everything, about everyone. It made him deeply uncomfortable. On his way out, the man smiled at him specifically, before closing the door behind him.

And then there were three.

Jaime immediately sat down in the chair furthest from Cersei, all the way across the long table. Cersei noticed, and her eyes refused to leave the side of his face for a while. Tyrion sat by the window instead, peeking through the curtain. “You look tired.”

“I did not get much sleep last night,” Cersei said.

_ I’m sure you didn’t. _ “Have you heard from Stannis or Renly?” Upon hearing no answer, he turned to look at her. He could not describe what exactly he was witnessing, but it was  _ something _ . Jaime and Cersei were looking at each other. Jaime was angry. His shoulders were tense and his jaw was set. Cersei’s lips were pursed, her fingers fisted in her lap. “Cersei,” he said, trying to bring her attention back to the present.

“No,” she snapped, hostile, finally deigning him with a hard stare.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m not the one who played Sweeney Todd last night.” He knew that would anger her. Cersei wasn’t aware of her mistakes, nor was she the sort of person to take responsibility for her actions. The blame would always befall someone else. In that, she and Jaime differed: he would often take the blame for things he had not done, arrogantly, knowing he would never pay for consequences. “What about the police?”

“Nothing.”

_ That’s odd _ . “Nothing at all?”

“I said  _ nothing _ .”

“Are you absolutely sure they did not-”

“She said nothing, drop it,” Jaime chimed in. Those were the first words he’d spoken ever since they’d left Casterly Rock. His voice was coarse from silence. “Just leave her alone. If they come, they come. We’ll be here, waiting.”

That was precisely the attitude that always got his brother into trouble. He never worried, never thought ahead. He acted on impulse, following his heart and his cock rather than his brain. Tyrion liked following his own cock too, but his heart? Oh, he’d buried that away a long time ago. It was taking everything in his power to ignore the elephant in the room.

“It will be a formality,” he added then, trying to lighten the mood.

“How do you know that?”

No matter how hard she tried to seem unaffected and above all of this, she was deeply wounded. Whether it was by Robert’s death of something else, he could not tell. His sister was torn, she was fighting a battle against herself and she was losing. He could see that, clear as day, upon her beautiful face. The brother in him wanted to tell her everything would be alright, but the Lannister side of him told him not to show her his underbelly. She had sharp fangs.

“Because I’m good at covering my tracks,” Tyrion said easily.

In that moment they heard noises outside the doors, and someone knocked with some insistence. Cersei stared at the door, fearful before she schooled herself and put on a brave face. Even Jaime stood up, like he was ready to jump in front of her and take a bullet. “Come in,” Jaime said.

A young boy walked in.

“Edric?” Jaime said, confused.

Tyrion did not know how Jaime knew the boy, nor did he care. “What is it?”

“Ma’am,” Edric said, looking at Cersei. “They have arrested someone for the…” He couldn’t say it.

“Murder.” Tyrion chimed in. “You can say it, it won’t make him any less dead if you don’t.”

Edric looked quite outraged at Tyrion’s words. It was Cersei’s turn to intervene. “I don’t understand,” she began, “They have not questioned me.” Tyrion glared at her. Cersei continued. “Not that they would need to but… Why haven’t they questioned me?”

“Ma’am, they’re closing the investigation.”

Tyrion stood up, hastily. “What?”

“They’re not… going to look any further. They say they found the killer. A girl from…” He trailed off, looked down. Tyrion wanted to laugh at how demure that looked. “…from a brothel, ma’am.”

_ It makes no sense. This is too easy.  _ “What about the autopsy?” Tyrion asked, taking a few steps forward. “Toxicology? Forensic analysis?”

Edric looked under pressure. “I don’t know sir,” he said hurriedly. “They will do all that but… they say they’re sure the girl is the killer.”

Tyrion knew what that was short for: all evidence would come back tampered with, planted or fake, in order to corner her. It was not what he had wanted. It would not be self-defence. Tyrion’s stomach sank, knowing he’d just condemned an innocent for life. Ros would not lift a finger to help her, if it meant going against powerful men. The girl would scream her innocence but it would fall on deaf ears. She would say she was set up, that important men were behind this, but no one would believe her. She would become a topic of conversation on online forums for conspiracy theorists.  _ Who really killed Robert Baratheon? _ Like JFK, and Lady Diana. People would suspect, for years, but she would rot in that cell for the rest of her life. And it would be his fault as well.

Someone was playing  _ the game _ . Tyrion desperately needed to know whom.

 

* * *

 

The Spider lived in a small apartment in Camden. Tyrion asked Bronn to go with him, but later decided to have him wait downstairs. As much as he trusted the man – and somewhat enjoyed his company even – this was a matter better dealt on his own. The building was only two-story. It wasn’t hard to find his doorbell: it was the only one without a name.

The apparent lack of surprise on the other man’s face, when he opened the door, sent a chill down his spine.

“Lord Tyrion,” he said, respecting an old tradition.

“My brother’s the Lord. I’m just me.” He peeked inside the house: albeit small, it looked pristine. The opposite of what he might have expected, judging by the exterior. The building was filthy. “May I come in?”

The spider let him in.

The entrance was one with the saloon. Tyrion looked around, and his eyes fell on the two mugs on the small coffee table. “Were you waiting for someone?”

“I’m always waiting for someone, Lord Tyrion,” Varys said. He walked past him and disappeared into the adjacent room. Judging by the noises, it was the kitchen.

Tyrion followed him, halting on the threshold. “You really don’t need to call me  _ Lord _ .”

“But you are a Lord,” Varys said simply. “I find it much easier to talk to people once we’ve establish who we are.”

“And who are you?” Tyrion asked. “My sister likes to keep you close. Why is that?”

Varys smirked, taking the kettle off the stove. “I do believe it is a case of… how do you say,  _ keep your friends close, and your enemies closer _ ?” Tyrion followed the man into the main room once more, watched him pour the boiling water into the mug.

“My sister doesn’t keep anyone close,” Tyrion said, once again taken with the surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the books. There were books everywhere. And not a single pictures. One of the first thing Tyrion noticed in a house was the pictures. He was obsessed with the idea of family. Maybe because his family had always counted only two people: himself and Jaime.

“She keeps your brother close,” Varys pointed out. That got Tyrion’s attention. He stared at the Spider long enough that the tea in their mugs had gone deep red. “How can I help you, Lord Tyrion.”

“Someone is pulling the strings,” Tyrion said, sitting down on the couch. It wasn’t quite as comfortable as the ones in Casterly Rock. “And I’d like to know who before I become a puppet.”

Varys mulled over his words, nursing the cup of tea in his hands. “You seem to be a smart man,” Varys said suddenly. “I do wonder if perhaps… you might not be more than you believe yourself.” He sipped from the scalding hot tea, with a wince. “Then again, most people seem bigger than they actually are. Take your brother-in-law for example. We all thought he might be a good leader, but as it turned out… he didn’t last long.”

“If I wanted a lesson in politics I’d read Machiavelli’s  _ Prince _ .” Tyrion smiled, and Varys smiled back. “But you are avoiding my question.”

“I’m avoiding your question because I do sincerely believe you know the answer already.”

Tyrion drank. The tea tasted too sweet for his taste: pomegranate and red berries. It stained the ceramic, reminding him of the blood he’d scrubbed off Downing Street’s floor. “You think too highly of me, Varys. I have no clue.”

Varys took yet another generous sip. “The way I see it, there are two types of people. The ones who wield the knife,” he paused, and Tyrion felt uneasy under his scrutiny, “and the ones who wield power.” Tyrion listened carefully, trying to drink in word the spider uttered. “Ask yourself, who wields the knife and who wields the power?”

His sister, Cersei, liked to think she wielded power, but she did not. She wielded the knife. His brother Jaime, too. People like Bronn, and Gregor… they wielded the knife as well.  _ Who wields the power? _ He thought about Robert’s cabinet. Every name, every story, every sordid secret. None of those people wielded any sort of power, not without Robert. Tyrion remembered how they’d struggled to come to terms with Robert’s accusations after Melara Hetherspoon had been found in that well. Even then, the police had failed to…

The police had failed to…

The police had not…

_ Ah. _

Tyrion looked down and bit his bottom lip. Of course. It made sense. It all came down to the police. And who controlled the police? A young, ambitious man who was sick and tired of living in the shadow of his older brother. Tyrion couldn’t begin to think how convenient that must have looked to Renly. A murder he could frame as his brother’s own self-destruction. A scene so perfectly staged all he had to do was… go with it. It must have looked like Christmas in April.

Varys was watching him over the rim of his mug. “Families are worse than politics, Lord Tyrion. You’d do well to remember that when you get the call.”

Tyrion frowned. “What call?”

Varys put on a surprised face. “You haven’t heard?”

Tyrion was tired of playing the Spider’s game. “Heard what?”

Varys put down his mug. “Surely you don’t think the country could go on without a Prime Minister, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not have a "Next on" this time around. For more Perihelion, you will have to check this space on January 7th!  
> I have, however, something that I believe will be even better.  
> Here’s something I have not done in a while: a brand new AU!  
> Check it out! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960241  
> Much love.  
> f.


	26. the offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cersei examines her options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a close one. HELLO EVERYONE. Happy New Year, and here we are again! Though I must admit I almost didn't make it. I am, in fact presenting you with an un-beta'd chapter because I literally just finished writing it and no beat could possibly put me out of my misery. So please please please be cool and turn a blind eye if you see something odd. As a result, I don't have a "NEXT ON". However this gave me an idea: since it's the last five chapters, we might go without the "NEXT ON", as to give you guys a chance to be thoroughly surprised by what's to come!
> 
> Thank you Nad for your unwvering support, and for listening to my endless complaints.
> 
> Lots of love to you all, always, and may the New Year be kinder to us all. We deserve it.
> 
> xx  
> f.

She felt tired. Ever since Robert’s death, she had found it very difficult to sleep. She told herself it was the trauma: that every time she closed her eyes, she saw him, bloodless, his blank eyes staring back, blaming her for what happened. Every now and then, she found her own fists clenched.  _ I am still holding that knife _ . The police had come eventually, but it had all been just for show. They had offered her their condolences, asked her where she was the night of the murder. Cersei had told them what Tyrion had told her to say. That the couple had had dinner with Jaime; that once they were done, Robert had insisted he had an important meeting to take care of but she knew he was cheating. That she had retreated in her bedroom to sleep, with her wounded pride, and that was where the help had found her the following morning.

If they did not believe her, they did not show it.

Renly called, dropped by later in the evening, long after Jaime and Tyrion had left. The meeting with her late husband’s younger brother had been strange: Cersei played her part well, whereas Renly wasn’t really trying that hard. He did not have many kind words for Robert: according to him, he was a tragedy waiting to happen. Cersei could agree with that: she was the one who had made it happen eventually.

Curiously, she had not heard from Stannis. The middle Baratheon brother had locked himself in his residence, refusing to speak to anyone but the police. Reporters hardly ever left Downing Street or Storm’s End or… any of their places. Renly and Stannis were under siege as well.

It had been three days.

Of course, her husband’s death was not the only issue keeping her up at night. It wasn’t even the most nerve-wrecking, considering how smoothly Tyrion’s plan had worked out. No, overall the murder of a Prime Minister was not even that high on her list of priorities.

Jaime was not speaking to her. Understandable, given the stunt she had pulled. It must have looked strange to him: one minute she was there, writhing underneath him, the next she was gone, refusing to acknowledge what had happened. He had done nothing wrong, said something wrong. At some point, he had fallen asleep and she had not. Her mind had simply overloaded, and she had done what she was best at: run.

She had run for her life because she did not remember ever feeling quite that peaceful her whole life, and that was inconvenient. If he had been anyone else, perhaps, she might have stayed, allow herself to fall and hope. But he was Jaime. He was her brother. What was the point of staying? Nothing could change that. He was not a married man: she could not hope he would one day leave his wife. DNA doesn’t change, nor does society and the world they lived in.

She could not stay. She could not love him. She could not let him love her.

But there was something to be said about the laws of attraction between them: even though she knew she shouldn’t, she kept gravitating towards him. So there she was, in the bedroom he had picked for her, surrounded by suitcases full of her stuff. She had asked Tyrion if she could move to Casterly Rock for a while. Her excuse was that she’d needed to escape from the media circus outside 10, Downing Street. In spite of the clear hesitation in his voice, Tyrion didn’t question her motives and allowed her request.

Jaime had not been around to welcome her. Her stuff had been brought upstairs, and she had followed the footboy silently. Stepping inside the room had brought back memories of that night. It had all come flooding in: the taste of him in her mouth, the smell of his cologne, how soft his skin felt compared to Robert’s, but still not as soft as hers.

It became too much soon enough, and she went downstairs. The help eyes her suspiciously. Many of them had served Tywin and Joanna, judging by their age. She was a new variant, they did not know how to move around her.

She looked around and picked the woman who did not look away. “Do you know where my brother is?” she asked straightforward.

“He is in the library,” the woman answered quickly.

Cersei scoffed. “The other brother.”

“Oh! Lord Jaime is in the stables.” Cersei nodded and headed for the main door, but the woman continued. “He is not alone, Miss. He’s expressed the wish not to be disturbed.”

That irked her. Not only she craved to know  _ who  _ the guest might be; the woman had assumed she would be a nuisance to her brother.  _ Cheeky _ . She glared, long and hard until the other woman took a step back. Cersei knew that woman would not speak to her again, if she could help it. She liked it that way. There was hardly anything those people could tell her that would be relevant to her interest.

She liked to keep the help in line. To remind them semi-regularly they were disposable. It kept them efficient.

Wordlessly, she turned and went for the door. Outside, the sun shone across the lawn, glimmering upon the fresh-cut grass. It was a beautiful afternoon, the days were beginning to last longer and the temperatures were getting warmer. Cersei decided to venture outside without a coat. The woollen sweater would suffice. The ground was soft, and her heels threatened to sink into the earth, so she decided to take them off and walk barefoot. Something she had not done since she was very young.

Heels in hand, she kept walking towards the stables. I her mind, she was preparing a speech. She repeated the same words over and over again until they sounded stale to her own ears. Plus, she knew Jaime was unpredictable. Chances were she could prepare as much as she wanted, he was always going to end up leading her elsewhere.

A men emerged from inside the building. He did not recognize him immediately. His hair was dark and unruly, his skin a darker complexion. He wore suit and tie, and a smirk that did not match. Seeing her there, he chuckled and came to a halt. “I keep forgetting how beautiful you are,” he said in his strong accent. He was not really paying her a compliment: Cersei knew the difference between sass and admiration.

 “My brother advised me against speaking to you,” she said, walking past him.

“Curious, as I am just returning from speaking to  _ him _ .”

Cersei sighed and turned. “Why are you are?”

Oberyn popped a hard candy in his mouth. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough.” He winked with a shit-eating grin and left her standing there, quite confused. What little she knew of Oberyn, often left her dubious in regards to his true intents. Jaime had warned her against the man, yet it seemed he didn’t abide his own advice.

Cersei found her brother in the stables, tending to Brightroar. By the looks of him, he must have just returned from a ride: his hair was damp from sweat, as was the back of his white shirt. The knee-high boots were stained with mud. He was letting his beard grow out, and his hair grow longer.

She had no doubts he had noticed her arrival, and was dead on ignoring her.

“What does Oberyn Martell want with you?” No use beating around the bush.

Jaime dropped the curry comb in a nearby tool box. He did not turn around when he spoke. “Nothing you should worry about.” His voice was monotone, and the message got across quite loud.  _ A polite way to tell me I should mind my own business _ . But she did worry: she worried about everything, these days. Most of all, she worried about him, worried about them.

It had taken so little to destroy what they had built.

“You told me not to trust him,” she insisted, stepping forward. Brightroar felt her presence, neighed a little. She caressed his long muzzle, patted his neck. “But you do?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Jaime spat out, hostile.

Jaime undid the knot on Brightoar’s reins and led him back to his box.

Cersei waited a beat before following him, stubborn beast that she was. “Will you be at Robert’s funeral?” she asked, attempting to pull the words from him as a dentist would a rotten tooth. They would release the body in a matter of days. It would be a big funeral, but not a State funeral. The circumstances of his death were too inconvenient for something that pompous.

“Oh right,” Jaime said, chewing on his bitterness. “How could I miss that?” His words dripped venom.

It was tiring.

Cersei was tired.

“Jaime, please stop. We can’t tiptoe around each other,” she tried, as he freed Brightroar of his restraints.

“Shame. You are very good at tiptoeing.” He slid the door shut louder than necessary. It closed with a loud clanging, and even Brightroar protested. He was still obtusely looking away, and Cersei missed the connection between them. She missed it even more now that he was actively withholding all attention from her.

She longed for it and that made her angry. Cersei leapt, grabbed him roughly by the hand and forced him to turn around to face her. With her fingers still wrapped around his wrist, Cersei had to fight the instinct to take a step back: when he looked at her, it made her shiver. Jaime had always looked at her with reverie, but now… she never knew being on the receiving end of his reproach might be so hurtful. He was a wounded lion, and wounded animals are dangerous.

_ I am a lioness too _ .

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve not been sorry once in your life.” He wrenched himself free and made a move to walk away but something stopped him. He had barely taken three steps when he halted, hands on his hips, head bowed. He turned around, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I just—I don’t get it.” He shook his head. “I woke and you were just… gone. Why?”

She had rehearsed the speech in her head, multiple times and multiple versions of it. Words were stuck in her throat now, not out of fear but out of doubt. It was easy to deny herself what she wanted when she was alone, but to do so when what she wanted was standing right in front of her? Begging her? Not so easy.

Her silence made him bolder and he took a step forward. Jaime had a way for perceiving people’s weaknesses. “It felt different, with you,” he said. “You know it did. You felt it too.”

She looked down. Her mouth was dry. “We’re brother and sister. Of course it felt different.”

Jaime scoffed. “Is this the part where you tell me _it was_ _a mistake_?”

“No.” It came out quick, too quick. “But just because it wasn’t a mistake… doesn’t mean it’s  _ right _ .”

His temper was flaring. Cersei could see it in his stance: he was restless, fidgeting. He did not like hearing this because he knew she was stating the truth. And the truth was all that stood between them: that and harsh, cold reality.

 “I can’t go back,” Jaime hissed. “I can’t pretend I don’t know what the inside of you feels like.”

“You don’t have to.” She drew closer, took a chance and pushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “You can keep that memory. Use it, if needs be.” Her lower stomach clenched at the thought. He looked down, avoiding her gaze. Muttered something she did not catch. “What was that?”

“I said,” he repeated, louder, clearer, “I love you.”

_ Love changes nothing. It never did. _

Cersei smiled, bit the words back because she would not allow herself the heartbreak of saying them aloud. “I’ll be staying here for a few days,” she added, changing the subject.

Jaime remained silent, absorbing the U-turn and metabolizing. “Tyrion mentioned that,” he said. It was softer, streaked with a vein of understanding. “You can stay as long as you want. This is your home.” Jaime said then, stepping away and heading for the gardens without sparing a second glance.

Watching him go, Cersei briefly considered following him, but the way his shoulders slouched suggested he might need time alone to lick his wounds. She could allow him that. It was about the only thing she could give him.

 

* * *

 

The day they buried Robert Baratheon the sky was grey, but without rain. No one was crying down here, either. Not his wife, nor his brothers. Sitting on opposite sides of the church aisle, Cersei and Stannis eyed each other more than once There, under God’s watchful eye, Cersei found herself void of mourning. If she closed her fist, she could still feel the knife’s silver handle pressing against her palm. If she closed her eyes, she could feel Robert’s warm blood soaking her sleeve, or his deadly rattle.

The picture on display showed a different Robert than the person her late husband had come to be. He was lean and tall, and smiling widely. He used to be good-looking, before he turned to alcohol and a brute behaviour. It wasn’t really the physical weight he’d gained, it was the violence that weighed on the dark mahogany coffin.

There were scars, on her body, places where his fingers would be imprinted forever, even though the bruising had long since faded.

Jaime and Tyrion sat with her, on either side. She was transfixed with her younger brother’s legs dangling from the bench. Tyrion was the first dwarf she’d met in her lifetime. Sometimes she found herself staring still, even after all this time. Did he notice her eyes wandering? Did he care? Or was he used to the pitiful stares from strangers? It was stupid, after all: Tyrion was richer and more powerful than any of them could ever dream to be. Did he crave more? Love? Ever since she’d known him, a little less than year before, she had seen him surrounded by beautiful women. However, she had not failed to see the sadness in him, and his lack of seriousness and commitment.

A hand slid up her thigh, lingered a little too long before grabbing her hand and squeezing. She turned to the other side, meeting Jaime’s hard eyes. The past three days had helped some, but there was still a palpable tension between them. Being in close proximity, living under the same roof had forced them to share space and time. That had reminded them that no matter whatever else had happened, they did enjoy spending time together. It had become less awkward after a while.

Jaime still wanted her. Longed for her. She knew by the way he looked at her, the way he’d touch her every chance he’d get. Every now and then, she’d catch him deep in thought, eyes trained on her. It didn’t take a huge effort to know exactly what he was reminiscing about.

Ever so slowly, some of the ice between them had melted. She would do well to keep temperature at bay, and keep him grounded.

The service was too long, too boring. The smell of incense threatened to lull her into sleep. Twice she glanced at the opposite bench, and even Stannis was struggling to keep his eyes open. It made her giggle, which was definitely noticed by a few onlookers.  _ Ah shit, that will be a story on Page Six tomorrow _ . Cersei did not care.

Some two hours later, they put Robert in the Baratheon chapel. She was grateful: it meant less people, less of the charade. She watched the coffin disappear behind the cement and, finally, the marble stone. It read: “ _ He loved his country and his country loved him. _ ”

Jaime bent enough to whisper in her ear: “Did it though?” Cersei smirked, pinched his side as if to scold him. Stannis was watching them closely. Renly was outside the chapel, on the phone. He’d been on the phone ever since he’d gotten to the cemetery. She had seen the Baratheon brothers argue just after the service, outside the church.

When all was done, they left the chapel and stood around, chatting for a few minutes. Most people came up to her, hearts in hand, going on about how deeply Robert would be missed, and what a wonderful politician he was, and an even better man. She had to bite her tongue: if they knew what sort of man Robert Baratheon had truly become they would run.

“Cersei, may I have a moment of your time?”

She was surprised when Renly approached her. He had never been quite as hostile as Stannis, but that didn’t mean they had ever liked each other. She found him frivolous and ineffective, he found her stiff and fake. Still, after Robert’s death, Renly had been uncharacteristically pleasant with her, unlike Stannis, who had not betrayed his usual buffoonery.  _ He needs something from me _ .

She followed him. Jaime and Tyrion watched them from afar: in fact, Jaime had offered to go with her, but she had quenched his zeal. She doubted Renly could do her any harm. The sun was warming them, and amidst the many graves, Cersei felt at peace knowing Robert was dead.

Behind his vintage Rayban’s, Renly hesitated. They walked side by side in the shade, just enough to be out of ear’s reach. He was fidgeting. It was embarrassing “How are you holding up?” Cersei tried.

“I—what?” Renly seemed confused. “Oh. Well, you know how it is. My brother is dead.”

Sometimes Cersei forgot how much younger Renly was. He had entered his 30’s quite recently, fifteen years Robert’s junior. The awkwardness of new adulthood showed on him. He was playing a part that did not fit him. He was a man, but hardly a responsible or rational one. He was prey to his whims, just like Robert. Except, his whims were quite different. He liked pretty things, expensive things. He liked to be treated like a little Lord, liked the finest things in life.

Robert had just liked booze and women. Renly was… in a way, better than that at least.

“Listen, Cersei…” he began, glancing over his shoulder like he was terrified someone might appear out of thin air. “There’s something I need to ask.”

“Of course you do.” She halted. The time for fake pleasantries was over. Now was the time for favours.

“I mean to be the next Prime Minister. I have already spoken to the Party, and they seem to find the idea agreeable. Still, they might need some convincing. I think they are still… unsure.”

Cersei lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, Renly. Who would have thought,” she said, partially amused at the idea that she was not the only one anxious to move on. “And quite literally as you stand on your brother’s grave.”

That angered him, his cheeks reddened and his face hardened. “My brother never loved me. Or you. My brother never loved anyone.”

Cersei had to disagree with that. He had loved someone, a long time ago, and that love had destroyed him. “Well, let me tell you, one unloved person to another, I doubt my backing will change much for you. I am afraid my days of influence are over, buried and rotting with your brother.”

Renly’s eyes narrowed. He seemed intrigued by what she had said. Cersei was confused: what did he know that she didn’t?

“Still,” he continued, gathering himself after a moment, “I’d like you on my side.”

It was quite strange. She liked it, of course: the fact that a man might  _ need _ her in order to get what he wanted… it gave her a brand new sort of satisfaction. Men usually looked to her for other reasons: desire, mostly, and money. But power? Influence? Less likely.

Renly was looking at her, waiting. He hated this, having to ask for her help. Her, of all people.

“My favour does not come cheap,” she said at last. “You will owe me.”

No matter how much he tried to hide it, there was a snarl on his face. Still, he was poised when he made a mocking bow. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” She preferred this to the false pleasantries. It was easier to know people’s nature when they needed something from you.

She offered his hand. Instead of shaking it, he grabbed it and made a gesture to kiss the back of it. In the distance, she heard a distinct click.  _ That will be on Page Six as well _ . Cersei smiled, as did Renly, before leaving. She waited around, stole a glance back where Tyrion and Jaime had witnessed the scene, from afar.

She could not shake off the sensation that something was happening behind the scenes. Something she should know. The death of her husband seemed to have set in motion a chain of events, with a new set of players.

 

* * *

 

Living in Casterly Rock was new for her. Slowly, she began to explore the building on her own. Every time she found a new room, a new piece of information about the Lannisters that had inhabited the manor before her. With childlike wonder, she delved into her own history. Jaime was always willing to help her with what she was curious about. It seemed Tywin had been strict as a father, and obsessed with the notion of family. As a result, both her brothers had been subjected to endless lessons about Lannister history. Cersei wanted to drink it all up, make it hers.

One afternoon in particular, holed up in the library, the three of them had decided to look at an old family tree. It was an ancient thing, the frail paper yellowed by the passing of time. As she read the names, some rang a bell. Maybe Jaime had mentioned them in the first days, when she was hungry for information about her newfound family. Some others were quite obscure to her. The whole thing was big enough to take up most of the space on the long wooden surface.

Cersei did not fail to notice that her own father and mother seemed to be distantly related, but she told herself that was what most noble families used to do. Even the Queen and her husband were cousins, after all, though quite removed. It made her stomach sink.  _ It’s a disease, and it runs in the family _ . As Cersei and Jaime’s eyes met across the paper, she asked herself if she could ever get away from it or if they were doomed to repeat the same mistakes as the ones before.

_ It felt right _ .

“I don’t see other  _ Cersei _ ’s,” Tyrion said, skimming the tree and interrupting the moment.

“There’s a Cerion, though,” she noticed, pointing at a name some generations back.

“Unfair,” her younger brother pouted. “I want to be the only Tyrion as well.” In fact, there were at least three more Tyrion’s before him.

Jaime put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure they were not quite as good-looking as you.”

Tyrion sat back in his chairs, feet dangling some inches from the floor. “Their cocks were definitely smaller.”

Cersei grimaced. This sort of camaraderie between the two of them made her uncomfortable, irrationally. Not only because she did not want to think about Tyrion’s cock –  _ wrong brother! _ – but also because it reminded her constantly of the fact that theirs was a team she might never be part of.

“M’lady?” A voice from the door. The three of them turned to see James, the butler, standing on the threshold. They had taken to calling her  _ M’lady _ recently. “Someone’s looking for you. They await in the foyer.”

“Who is it?” Cersei asked without moving.

“Miss Taena Merryweather, from the Baratheon staff.”

Tyrion and Jaime were looking at her, curious. Cersei had not seen Taena for a while – certainly not since Robert’s death. She did not feel any particular way towards the woman – in a way, Taena had been a tool of Robert’s smothering during the campaign.

Jaime straightened his back. Cersei was good at recognizing whenever he was about to get defensive, and this was one of those times. Ever since they had caved to their desires, he had grown possessive and territorial. Every small hindrance that he saw as a potential threat put him in a defensive stance. There was something more than brotherly affection – it was pathological.

“I’ll see her in the dining room.”

The butler nodded solemnly and bowed his head before heading back to the foyer.

“Just send her away,” Jaime disagreed as soon as they were alone, the three of them.

“Why?” she shrugged. Cersei looked for Tyrion’s help, but he was deep in thought, his brain already overheating. He looked… worried. Why did he look worried? “She’s harmless,” she added, trying to make her point. “I have nothing to fear from her.”

“She used to be just another means for Robert to control you.”

Cersei chuckled. She was already making her way out. “Nothing Robert can do from where he’s gone, though, is there?” she joked lightly, over the shoulder.

Cersei found Taena Merryweather exactly where she expected her to be: in the dining room, sitting down by the fireplace, eyes trained on her phone, fingers tapping fast on the screen. She was busy; she was always busy with her data and analysis. For the occasion, the other woman had worn a light tan suit that complemented her darker complexion. Her hair was short, a pixie cut. The eyeliner on her lids was sharp and on point, as was the rest of her make-up. There was so much one could gather from how a woman chose to present herself. Knowing Taena a little, she was serious about this meeting.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she said aloud. Taena jumped on her feet the moment she saw her. She was nervous. Cersei liked that. She kissed the woman’s cheek – she was quite taller than her, but then again, most people were taller than Cersei. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Taena replied.

Cersei invited her to sit down and picked an armchair for herself. Opposite. Distant. Legs crossed, she studied her visitor for a few seconds. Noticed the bouncing of her leg, a symptom of her nervousness. Made a point of asserting her aura in the room, and elect herself as the person leading the conversation. Yet she could not lead unless she knew exactly what Taena wanted.

“I don’t think you came here to check on my well-being,” Cersei offered. A way to go straight to the point. With her fidgeting and hesitation, Taena reminded her of Renly. Just like Renly, in spite of the nerves, Taena was determined and ambitious. Cersei liked that in her interlocutors. Ambition was something she could understand and exploit. “How can I help you?”

“That’s not the question you should be asking,” Taena said. “The question you should be asking is, how can  _ I _ help  _ you _ ?”

Cersei was taken aback. It was a cheeky response, one she was not expecting. She laughed. “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” Taena insisted, perched on the edge of the cushion.

The way the woman was looking at her reminded her of a hungry wolf. Cersei was… uncomfortable, but enthralled. It was a longing, a desire for something.  _ She wants me… but why? _ “I hardly think there’s anything you can do for me, Taena,” Cersei told the woman. “But please, do amuse me.”

Taena made a long pause, eyes trained on her. Cersei knew it was as much for her to gather her thoughts as it was for the dramatic value of it all. She was a good actress, she had to give her that.

The words that followed tumbled from Taena’s lips, effortlessly. “I think you should be the next Prime Minister.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, fixed on the woman’s lips. They were moving but Cersei was not hearing a word of it. She had a hard time focusing, as her brain processed what had just been suggested. It took her a full minute to recover. When she finally came out of her trance, Taena was staring ahead, at her.

“Are you on drugs?” Cersei asked, out of the blue, quite serious too. Taena did not reply. She had meant what she said.

Cersei was doing all in her power not to betray the turmoil that statement had provoked. Sitting there, with her hands clasped in her laps, she was considering the scenario. She always liked wielding some sort of power, but ultimately she was raised to be at someone’s side. To be meek and demure. In other words, she was a woman and should make no mistakes about her role in this world. Throughout her life, Cersei had wondered who had made those rules. Who had decided what a woman was allowed to do. She liked it less and less, growing up. She liked it even less now that she was an adult with ambitions of her own that went far beyond being someone’s wife.

_ What should a woman be? _ To them, weak. Passive. Submissive. Everything Cersei could never be.

And yet, the prospect sounded ludicrous even to her. She stood up, hastily, and Taena did the same. “Thank you for coming, Taena,” Cersei said, looking away. “James will show you--”

Before she could finish the sentence, Taena took a step forward. It was a bold move. One that forced Cersei to pay attention. “Have you seen your stats recently?”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Your stats. Your percentages. Your  _ data _ .”

“No, and I’ve been better off.” The façade she had worked so hard on was crumbling. She was losing her composure and her patience. “I don’t care what people think of me.”

“You should,” Taena bounced.

“I don’t care about your data,” Cersei turned her back on Taena and headed for the door. “So what if they don’t like me? I will not make a fool of myself to get people to love me. I will not embarrass myself just to get some validation. I’m not Robert, I don’t need any of this petty--”

“They  _ adore _ you.”

Again, Cersei paused. Turning on the spot ever so slowly, she wondered if Taena was being ironic, or if she was messing with her. But Taena’s face was serious, set in stone. No, she had put on an annoying smirk, looking down at her phone and tapping on the screen.

“What?”

“Your numbers have gone up tremendously,” Taena explained. “You’re a victim, now. A martyr. They’re crazy about you. Beautiful woman cheated on by her terrible husband who is too powerful to defy? Come on You’re fucking  _ Lady D. _ ”

Taena was not nervous now. No, she was on the prowl. And Cersei was a deer caught in the headlights. It made sense. Of course, to the onlooker she would look void of blame.  _ Oh poor Cersei _ , she could almost hear them say. Ordinary people were so predictable. A warmth was spreading to her stomach, but she hesitated to enjoy it.

She had never wanted more than what Taena was offering. She had the knowledge from University, the influence from her blood, the ambition from herself. There was nothing standing in between what she wanted and herself, but her legs were wary.

 

* * *

 

Jaime found her by the fireplace, sometime later. The room had grown dark after sunset, but Cersei had not moved from her spot on the couch. She felt the flames casting shadows on her face, warming her. Upon hearing his footsteps, she recognized him immediately. She tucked her legs, leaned against the armrest without looking up. “What?”

“Dinner is ready,” Jaime said, leaning with his elbows on the back of the same couch.

Cersei craned her neck to see him. “Yeah,” she sighed. “I’ll be right there,” she added, returning her gaze upon the flame and not moving.

Jaime didn’t leave. “Are you okay?”

She scoffed.  _ Am I? _ “Yes,” she lied.

“What did Taena want with you?” he said, sniffing her trouble like a hound. He circled the sofa and sat down next to her. She took advantage of the situation to stretch her legs and put her feet in his lap. He took to massaging one ankle, making small circular motions with his thumb and index finger. Cersei closed her eyes. The question lingered between them.

“She made me an offer I could not refuse,” she joked, eyes still closed.

Jaime applied more pressure as he let his hands travel p her calf. “And what did you do?”

Cersei lifted her head. “Why, refuse of course.”

Jaime snorted and shook his head. “Why is it so difficult for you to just take what you want, even when it’s offered to you on a silver platter?” It was obvious they were only half discussing Taena’s offer, now.

Cersei’s eyes followed his fingertips. He paused a while longer at her knees, massaging the back of them. Her head lolled back against the armrest, and he took that silence as an opening to go on. “What are you afraid of?”

Looking up at the ceiling, Cersei smiled. “Failure?” she said, quickly. “Delusion. Disappointment.” A beat. She was mindful of Jaime’s hands on her thighs, just above her knees. “Heartbreak, too.” Would things have been different if her mother had never believed the prophecy? If she had been raised just like Jaime, arrogant and fearless, reckless and impulsive…

Would she have been better at this?

The moment his fingertip resumed their journey, she swung her legs off him, sitting up straight. They sat there, quiet, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace. It was hot, but everywhere else would be cold.

“I would never break your--”

Hastily, she stood up. “Stop it.”

“No,” he said, grabbing her hand before she could run. “You need to hear it.”

“Jaime--”

“You need to hear it, because I don’t think anyone’s ever said this to you.” He too stood up, towering her. She did not fight, she knew he would not let go. He was stubborn and, unfortunately for the both of them, stupidly in love. “I would never –  _ never _ – break your heart.”

She wanted to believe him, because she was stupidly in love too. “But don’t you see?” she said. His grip around her wrist slackened, he looked confused. She smiled a sad smile. “You broke my heart the very day you entered my life.”


	27. a good man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they look after a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, you absolute rockstars! We are back once again with a brand new chapter! Three more to go! As the end draws near, sentimentality and melancholia threaten to take a hold of me and make me emotional. I do hope it won't reflect too much on my writing - wouldn't want you to think I've gone soft on you! This chap is dear to my heart because I had to dig into some deeply personal memories to write it: as a used-to-be horse girl, I lived the experience you're about to read about on my own skin, so I am sure of a good 90% of what I wrote. As for the remaining 10% ... Let's just say I hope none of you are studying to be a veterinarian!  
> I really wanted to take a more intimate look at Jaime and Cersei in this one, so don't expect a lot of plot progression on this one. After all, we are here for them, no point denying /that/.  
> Enjoy! I'll see you at the end for one piece of info.

Jaime found it incredibly difficult to be in his skin, nowadays. Living in Casterly Rock with Cersei was different. Seeing her every day gave him vigour, a reason to get up in the morning. Sometimes, he’d feel giddy at the thought he could just cross the hall to find her. It was reassuring, the sort of intimacy they were robbed of when they were children. It wasn’t that hard to imagine what that life might have been like: he could almost picture himself as a child, running along those corridors to chase her, to find her, to be with her at all times. _Ghosts._ Those children were ghosts of a past that never was.

The difficult part? Being near her always was a reminder of what he could not have.

He wanted her, no doubt. However, there was more than the physical aching. It was a new sensation for him, something he had never experienced with anyone. It wasn’t just love, _just love_ was for ordinary people. Yes, he loved her, but he loved her with a force unknown, irregular and destructive. He needed her. He needed the peace of mind that came from being one. He needed that completion.

He did not feel himself. After being with her, he had realized he had lived half a life. Now that he finally knew what it would feel to be whole, it was downright cruel having to go back to a partial existence.

Living with her meant he had a chance of getting to know those parts of her she did not show to strangers. Entering the intimacy of her every-day life rather than fleeting moments meant he could see just how similar they were, or how different.

For instance, she liked her eggs scrambled, whereas he preferred them hard-boiled; she was also a sucker for pomegranate juice, which he could not stand. She liked the warm weather better than winter, something they had in common, and a fire was always burning in the fireplace. She had a funny habit of folding pieces of paper into tiny animals wherever she went, and she didn’t like it when he pointed it out, like he was showing her a weakness. She liked the horses, but she wasn’t very comfortable around them because she didn’t like to get her hands dirty. She liked scented candles: her favourites scents were golden chestnuts, cinnamon stick and vibrant saffron. He could always tell when she was home by the smell of the entrance hall.

The house had begun to change its appearance as well. All of a sudden, everything seemed more… golden. Even the way sunrays filtered through the curtains had changed. How was it possible? Certainly his sister could not change the Sun’s orbit… could she?

She had a firm hand in managing the house, much more than Jaime or Tyrion had during their short tenure. It was quite clear she had claimed her rightful place as Lady of the house, a role they had sorely disrespected since Joanna’s death. The staff was scared of her – which Jaime found funny. His sister’s regime was authoritarian, whereas his and Tyrion’s had been… well, relaxed to say the least.

Tyrion and Cersei were not settling as comfortably into the new arrangement. Something was amiss, though, something more than disagreements and a divergence of taste. Each held a grudge for something. He wanted to think this was about him once again, as it would inflate his ego, but he was smarter than that. Whatever they were going through was rooted in something else, something bigger. Every time he approached one or the other about it, all he got were vague responses that denied the evidence. Cersei told him she did not agree with Tyrion’s lax lifestyle, whereas his younger brother just brushed the whole thing off and pretended it was nothing.

Overall, only a fool would not notice they were wary of each other. They had very different ways to go about their disagreements. Tyrion kept to his corner, whereas Cersei tried to grow bigger and bigger and take up all the space she could. She would redecorate a room, to make her presence known. Invite someone for tea. Have music play in every room.

Jaime could read her. If Tyrion’s strategy was to pretend she did not exist, she was making it thoroughly impossible.

If he had to pinpoint the exact moment things had gone south between them, he would say some time around Taena’s visit. Things had not been the same after that, and Cersei had been the first one to pull away. Tyrion had slowly gotten the message and started acting consequently. Jaime had witnessed the deterioration of that relationship, unable to do anything.

Meanwhile, Renly Baratheon had been elected Prime Minister ad Interim. Elections had been called for December: when asked why the long wait, the new Prime Minister had said it was to give the government time to assess the damage after Robert’s death and give the country time to mourn. Eight months was a long time to mourn a Prime Minister no one particularly liked anymore, not after all those scandals. The decision gave start to protests in the streets, promptly sedated by the armed forces.

He, Jaime, had plans of his own that he had not mentioned to either his brother or his sister, knowing many people would not like what he was about to do. And those plans involved the help of one Oberyn Martell. Jaime admitted it wasn’t ideal that Cersei had caught them after their meeting, but he also knew she could not possibly have any idea what he was doing.

No one could, not even Tyrion.

 

* * *

 

They woke him up in the middle of the night. He had barely opened his eyes when someone switched on his bedside lamp. Shielding his eyes from the light, he tried to make out the face of the unexpected visitor. “What is it?” he asked once he was able to recognize James, the butler.

“Sir, it’s the new horse.”

“Brightroar? What’s wrong?”

“He’s not well, sir. The stable master says it’s colic.”

Jaime sighed. He knew what that meant – that specific abdominal condition was often fatal for horses. He pushed the sheets aside and got to his feet. “Tell them I’m on my way,” he announced, heading for the bathroom. He washed his face as fast as he could, put on some clothes. When he got out of the bathroom James was gone, and he was alone.

Heading down the corridor, he remembered tagging along his father on a similar occasion. It had been a summer night, and Jaime had never seen a dying horse before. He still remembered the look in the poor beast’s eyes. Jaime hated death: it had ripped his mother from them. When they put it down, Jaime looked away. Tywin had been disappointed.

On top of the staircase he made a U-turn, heading for the opposite direction instead. He walked all the way to the other wing of the manor, halting at a familiar door. He did not bother to knock, knowing Cersei would be asleep. He pushed the door open gently, walked up to the bed and crouched down. She was sleeping on her side, head resting on the back of one hand.

“Cers,” he murmured, shaking her shoulder just enough to wake her. He did not mean to frighten her but, when she opened her eyes, she was startled all the same. “It’s me, it’s fine.”

“What happened?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Brightroar is not feeling well.”

“What, and you woke me up because your horse has a tummy ache?” she protested, eager to go back to sleep.

He could not blame her for her ignorance on the subject. “He might not make it, Cers.”

Cersei pouted. “Sorry,” she said at last. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Jaime hesitated. “Yes, please.” He was never one to beg, but he felt no shame in asking her simply because it was _her_.

She watched him closely, then nodded and got up. It took all his strength to conceal the hunger that threatened to overcome him at the sight of her in her nightgown. It was so thin it would take a flicker of his finger to lower the spaghetti straps down her shoulders and let the flimsy silk pool around her feet. He averted his eyes to contain the daydreaming. She disappeared in the bathroom for a few minutes.

He waited for her, scanning the room. It had grown more personal since the first time he’d showed it to her. The closet was full of clothes. Her belongings were scattered across the room: her makeup by the vanity, a few bottles of perfume on the nightstand, her night robe hanging on behind the door, a book on the bedside table, a pair of reading glasses beside it.

She returned some minutes later, dressed in a more casual attire than the usual: a pair of black pants and a white shirt that he suspected she’d stolen from him, judging by the ill fit. “Let’s go,” she said.

He led the way down the main staircase, out into the night, across the lawn and into the stables. The air was chilly, the grass was wet and the earth was soft under their footsteps. The stables welcomed them with its warmth.

Upon their arrival, a man hurried towards them. “Sir, you didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” Jaime replied right away. “Where is he?”

“In his stable, sir. He was restless because of the pain. We had to sedate him.” The stables master eyes Cersei. “Ma’am, are you sure you want to--”

“Think carefully what your next words will be, and if you would still say it if I were a man.” Cersei’s voice was stern, determined. The other man fell silent, and Jaime wagered he would never again speak to his sister unless she asked him to. That was Cersei’s way: fear.

They followed the man all the way to Brightroar’s stable. Jaime’s heart fell at the sight. The horse was lying down, on his side; his big, black eyes looked tired. Upon seeing Jaime he neighed feebly. “Hey big boy,” Jaime said, crouching to caress the neck. The horse tried to move, but Jaime hurried to hold him still, pushing all the weight over the animal’s front legs. “Shush,” he said, trying to soothe the horse. “It’s fine, don’t move.”

That seemed to calm the animal.

“What do we do?” Jaime asked aloud.

“Well, all we can do is… wait. There’s a chance, if he makes it through the night. But it’s paramount that he does not--”

“…roll over, I know,” Jaime completed the sentence for him. He sat on the pavement, cross-legged, caressing the horse. “I got this.”

“Sir, you shouldn’t have to do this. We have people who can--”

“I said I got this. It’s _my_ horse.” Jaime glanced over his shoulder, eyes hard. “I’ll see to him.” The man looked back, surprised at his tenaciousness. He bowed his head a little in Jaime’s direction and left without another word. In a matter of seconds they heard the loud clanging of the main door being lid shut.

Cersei lingered outside the stable. He could feel her presence, just outside, as she wondered what her place in all this would be. Jaime sat, with his back against the wall and one hand caressing the horse’s mane. He looked up at her and found her curious, funny, terribly out of place.

“For a horse, colic can be fatal,” he explained, assuming she must not know much on the subject. “I daresay it’s one of the worst thing that can happen to them.” He regarded the horses with affection; he was in pain, undoubtedly, but something about Jaime’s presence and touch was calming him. “You can leave if you want,” he added, “but I’d really like you to stay.”

He looked up to see her weighing her options. Just when he was sure she would leave, she stepped inside, mindless of the chips and dirt. She slid down the wall and sat just opposite him. Brightroar lay between them, big and cumbersome, his belly rising and falling with every pained gulp of air. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged her legs.

“Is he in a lot of pain?” she asked. Her voice was not soft, nor tender.

Life had made his sister less susceptible to empathy and compassion but, every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of pity. “Not as much now, he’s sedated,” he reminded her. “But I’m guessing this isn’t his best night, is it big boy?” he continued, turning his attention – and his words – to Brightroar.

Cersei was watching _him_ now. He knew she was taking everything in, studying his moves. It was her modus operandi: first she studied you, assessed your strength and weaknesses. Then, if she decided it was worth her time, she’d consider making or breaking you. “He doesn’t understand you, you know? He’s an animal.”

“I disagree,” he said. “Animals are perceptive in ways us human could never dream of.”

“I don’t dislike animals,” she pointed out, as if he was accusing her of something.

“I did not say that,” he replied, calmly. He knew her by now; Cersei would lash out every time she felt threatened, and the only way to contain her was not raising to her bait.

He had walked, barefoot, inside her storm once before. It had torn him down to his foundation.

“What’s going to happen to him if he doesn’t get better?” she asked.

Jaime shrugged. “Well, we do a scan and see what’s causing the abdominal pain. Sometimes surgery is enough. It’s not without risks, though.”

Cersei nodded. “And what if surgery is not enough?”

When Jaime looked up, Cersei looked down, hastily. He knew what his father would have said: _put him down_. He could not muster the courage to tell her, did not want her to worry about the worst case scenario.

“It will be,” he said at last, with a smile he hoped would be comforting, reassuring.

For a while, the only sound in the stable was Brightroar’s heavy breathing. Jaime was perfectly aware of Cersei’s eyes, focused on him. He could not tell how much time had passed exactly, when a light tapping outside caught his attention. A gentle rainfall. The neon lights inside the stables flickered for an instant. Jaime noticed Cersei shifting. She lowered a hand, tentatively, to Brightroar’s nose. The horse reached out, meeting her touch. A small smile appeared on his sister’s features. It never ceased to amaze him, how the smallest amount of affection had a way of warming her and making her happy.

Even in that unflattering light, she looked beautiful. Her hair was longer than when she’d met her. As she stroked Brightroar’s mane, her golden curls curtained over her face, shielding her from him like a modern day Narcissus. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her.

 

* * *

 

Around 4 a.m. Jaime knew something was wrong. Brightroar was growing restless, and it became hard to keep him still. Cersei was not much help: her will power was much greater than physical strength, but helped very little on this occasion. He noticed Brightroar’s parched tongue, swollen between the animal’s teeth. _Dehydration_. There was only so much he could do; he lacked the skills to take care of the issue.

The veterinarian arrived promptly around 4.30 a.m. and increased the sedation. As soon as Brightroar was peaceful once again, the vet stuck an IV inside the horse’s neck to fight the dehydration.

Throughout the process, Cersei never left Jaime’s side. She was uncharacteristically quiet, for someone that bossy. He could smell fear on her, it was the first time he had truly seen her worry since his accident, months before. He wondered if she realized she was holding on to him, that she was squeezing his forearm tight enough that he was getting pins and needles in his palm.

The doctor waited around for half an hour, to be sure the IV and the sedative was working. He left them with some instructions for the night, and a prayer they call him in the morning and inform him on Brightroar’s condition. Jaime followed him outside, leaving Cersei behind. When he was sure she would not hear them, he asked the doctor what Brightroar’s chances were.

“Hard to tell,” the man responded, in a tone that did not bode well. “Depends on how the night goes.”

Jaime could have told him as much, without a degree. The man’s attitude irked him but he let that slide, anxious to return to his post. Walking back, he heard the familiar whisperings coming from the stable. He walked slowly, careful not to make any noise. The sight before him made his heart swell. Cersei had kneeled by the horse’s side, both hands on the animal’s neck, caressing. She was murmuring something that sounded a lot like, “You’ll be fine, you’ll be alright.”

“What happened to _‘He doesn’t understand you’_?”

It startled her. She retreated both hands, sitting back against the wall with her arms folded against her chest. Jaime chuckled as he sat next to her, shoulders touching. It reminded him of many months ago, when she’d chased him after her gala. The way they’d sat in the same exact position, in Joanna’s study. The way she’d told him she was happy he’d found her. He did not know if she still felt the same, not after what she’d told him.

He had not meant to hurt her, but he recognized he had all the same. It would have been better if neither knew. Maybe they would have met, one day. Maybe their paths would have crossed and they would have fallen for each other without knowing the truth. Maybe that would have been easy. Maybe.

“What’s your business with Oberyn Martell?”

Her question caught him off guard. She was sharp and cunning; he knew he was acting on borrowed time. “Don’t worry about it,” he tried to brush her doubts off.

“You keep saying that,” she insisted.

“What’s it to you?” he asked. He did not mean to sound accusatory, but it did come out that way. And judging by her silence, he’d hit the nail on the head. “There are some things that are just… not about you.” He finished the sentence with a smirk, knowing she would hate that sentence. _Everything is about you_.

“I just…” she tried to dodge, “I don’t like it when you keep secrets from me,” she complained. She was stomping her feet like a child. She hated not getting her way and He liked that about her, for some weird reason.

“Tell me _your_ secret than,” he continued, turning to face her, unblinking.

“What secret?”

“You know which one,” he pressed on. They were so close he could count her eyelashes. “The one that has you and Tyrion pissing in each other’s teas.”

That caught her off guard, but a part of him was convinced she had already made up her mind to spill the beans, because she gave that up too willingly. “Did you know he’s going to run for Prime Minister?” A beat. Jaime didn’t say anything. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” She was grinning, knowing she’d dropped the bomb.

He had not.

Jaime couldn’t say he was surprised. His brother had always been very good with people and subterfuge, both very important qualities for politicians. He knew the difference between being diplomatic and seeking compromise. He was a natural born leader, something that had always rubbed Tywin the wrong way. More than once, when he was alive, Jaime had been under the impression his father had felt threatened by Tyrion. It wasn’t the fact per se that upset him, it was the omission.

Why hadn’t Tyrion told him? They always told each other everything, even the smallest thing, and this shit was _big_.

Cersei’s self-satisfied smirk annoyed the hell out of him. She was insufferably competitive when it came to Tyrion. It flattered him most of the time, because it meant she craved his attention. But not now. Now she revelled in his disappointment, no doubt thinking she managed to one-up their brother. That angered him.

“Who told you that?” Jaime asked.

“Really, Jaime,” she deadpanned. “Why do you think I keep Varys around?”

 _The Spider_. Jaime still had to figure out that relationship. Ever since he’d known her, Varys had been in the shadow. He knew the man whispered in his sister’s ear… but why? “Well, even if that’s true…That’s Tyrion’s business,” Jaime tried to dissimulate the low blow. “Why does it bother _you_ so much?”

Cersei held Jaime’s stare for a while. He tried to decipher what was going on behind those emerald green eyes, but sometimes his sister played the game far too well. He could basically _hear_ her thinking, trying to come up with something that would not show her hand.

“It doesn’t,” she said finally.

“Liar.” Brightroar tried to move his legs, but Jaime kept him still. It lasted a whole minute before the animal quieted down again. Cersei stifled a yawn, but Jaime caught her. “You should go back,” he offered, “Get some sleep.”

Cersei shrugged, and her eyelids fluttered. “Nah, I’ll just… close my eyes for a moment.” Slowly, she lowered herself to rest her head on Brightroar’s neck. “I’m awake,” she murmured, sleepily.

“Sure you are,” Jaime murmured to himself.

 

* * *

 

Brightroar had fallen asleep shortly after Cersei. Jaime had tried to hold on for as long as possible. Mindlessly, his fingers had traced the tips of Cersei’s hair against the deep ink black of Brightroar’s coat. The seemed to breathe in unison. He could not let either of them go, not tonight not ever. It struck him that he would not have stood vigil for any of the other horses. Just Brightroar. And the reason was simple.

Brightroar was _her_. She had presented the animal to him, and in Jaime’s mind it would always remind him of her. Especially now that he could not have her, it was vital that Brightroar lived, because if Brightroar lived they stood a chance. He would not admit it to his sister, because that would make him look weak.

He got up around 6 a.m. and walked up to the small sink nearby the showers, after getting rid of the empty IV bag. There, he splashed some cold water on his face and drank some of it as well. The sun was rising, and the songbirds were already chirping their morning tunes amidst the branches. He paused before the spectacle, drinking in the sight. It was a seldom occurrence: peace. The last time he’d been at peace was the night he’d spent with her. He remembered everything so clearly. Her fingers drawing patterns on his back, the sound of her steady breathing before he fell asleep. The pink sky outside her window as the sun came up. Her silken sheet clinging to the back of his legs. The smell of her on his skin, the _taste_ of her on his tongue.

He sighed. Was he destined to relive the memory for the rest of his days? It was a grim prospect.

It wasn’t raining any longer. No, the sky was clear from clouds. It would be a beautiful day.

“Jaime! Jaime, come! Quick!”

Cersei’s voice pulled him out of his wonderings. He hurried back to the stable.

Brightroar had awoken and lifted his head; his eyes, now lively and curious, examined the surroundings. Then the horse bent his front legs and used them as a support to stand. When he finally stood on his four legs, he looked even taller and more majestic that Jaime remembered. Cersei was still sitting in her corner. Sleeping on Brightroar’s neck had meant she was now covered in wood chips. Vivid rays of sunshine played on Brightroar’s coat, giving it an orange glow. Cersei was smiling, looking up at the beast, in awe.

Jaime laughed. “You feel better, don’t you big boy?” he murmured, patting the horse’s neck. “You gave us quite a fright you know?” Brightroar went straight for the drinking trough. It gave Jaime a moment to look down and help Cersei on her feet. She was giddy, beaming. Her happiness was contagious. “Told you he would be fine,” he let out, picking a piece of wood between her hair.

It was mesmerizing. Her eyes were big and round, her smile was so big it split her face in two. He had never seen her smile so big. Cersei could not look away from Brightroar and Jaime… well, he could not look away from her. Even with only a few hours of sleep, she still was the most beautiful woman Jaime had ever laid eyes on. It made him sad. It made him angry. It filled his heart with remorse and regret at once.

“Go to bed,” he told her, leaning in. “I’ll call the vet, tell him he’s fine.”

Cersei was hugging herself. She nodded, tired. “Thank you,” she breathed.

She went on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes in the attempt to restrain himself. His heart was thumping furiously in his ribcage. It was fleeting, yet it lasted a whole century.

“Why are you thanking me?” he asked, watching her walk away.

“For not giving up,” she stopped, turned around and pointed a finger at him. “You’re a good man, Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime laughed bitterly. “If I were a good man, I wouldn’t want to fuck you.”

It was supposed to shock her. It didn’t. Cersei bit her bottom lip, but it was obvious what she was biting back was her usual, arrogant smile. Jaime tilted his head, enthused. For the first time, after that fateful night, there was a renewed, flirtatious playfulness about them. And when she turned on her heels to walk away, he could have sworn there was a sway in her hips just for him.

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey!  
> So this is to warn you I will not be publishing next week for family reasons! :) The new chap will be out on January 28th! I'll see you then!  
> Much love to all of yous! <3


	28. joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she lets someone brush her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! The end is drawing near, and with every word I type it just feels more and more real. As always, thank you for sticking with this. I know this must be old by now, but I couldn't have asked for a more engaging audience. You really are the reason this story is what it is, and for this I shall never thank you enough.  
> A special thank you to Cait and Nadia for the outstanding support during the writing process.  
> Have a nice read, and I'll see you after the chap!  
> f.

The flowers bloomed. Slowly, the grass won over the worn out winter earth, and with it the pink and red and yellow of springtime. The trees surrounding the mansion were covered in leaves once more, sheltering the songbirds underneath them. The Castamere grounds had never been that beautiful, not even in summertime. Cersei often found herself marvelling at the sights her new home offered. Within those walls, she felt stronger. Within those walls, she felt herself at last. It had taken years, but she was finally there.

The satisfaction, however, was not enough. Now that she no longer had to play the role of the perfect wife – something she had thoroughly despised for a long time before Robert was even elected, and the whole months after – she found she did not have a real trajectory.

Void of meaning and purpose, she was bored.

After graduating from Oxford, she hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the world around her. If Robert was to be believed, Tywin had worked behind her back even then, arranging the marriage with Roger Reyne’s help before she could as much as glance at the world. Cersei had not worked a day in her life. Her degree had been useless: her only asset had been to look pretty and smile for the cameras. They had put a ring on her finger and a tombstone on her future.

She did not know where to begin. Everything sounded either dull or out of her reach. She couldn’t tell what she hated more: boredom, or the distinct feeling of being inadequate.

In the midst of her personal crisis, she did what most women do best: redecorate. Casterly Rock had not been looked after since Joanna’s passing, she wagered. Many of the rooms were stuffy and the furniture too old to even be considered antique. The curtains had been the first thing to go – the deep, crimson velvet replaced with a burgundy that added warmth to the place. The walls were next: it took two full weeks to paint the first floor, two more for the bedrooms upstairs. Tyrion insisted he liked his bedroom as it was, thank you very much, and she did not insist. Jaime was more forthcoming: when it came to taste, he gave her due credit.

Mid-May, she found herself in a difficult predicament: carpets. Most of the carpets in Casterly Rock were old enough that the colours had lost their vibrancy, and the fabric had lost its quality. Cersei has spent the whole morning surrounded by the most beautiful samples: afghans, Persians and whatnot, after a while they all looked the same. Looking at the price tags was enough to make her head spin – which reminded her of yet another issue.

Money.

Jaime had granted her access to the Lannister bank account. It was… well, a fortune. Cersei herself had been wealthy most of her life, but she had never seen that much money, let alone spent it. Part of her felt entitled to it, after all she  _ was _ Tywin’s natural daughter, whether he liked it or not. The money was as much hers as it was Tyrion’s or Jaime’s. But it wasn’t hers, not truly. Every time she wrote a cheque, she couldn’t help the sinking feeling that she was spending someone else’s money. Tyrion never wasted a chance to show his disapproval of her spending habits, as well, whereas Jaime was supportive.  _ “Do whatever makes you happy,” _ he would say almost every day. It was infuriating: she knew well he was stricken with guilt that she had not had access to any of that growing up.

It felt awfully close to pity, and Cersei hated pity.

She returned from London around midday. It was a half-an-hour-drive. On the way, she had stopped to buy pink peonies and mint chocolate – Jaime’s favourite chocolate, although later she would pretend she did not know. Once she was safely inside the house, she handed her trench coat and her handbag to the first available house cleaner. A warmer climate meant she could wear a plain red pussybow frill dress. She liked to wear thin fabrics in the house – she often caught Jaime staring.

She heard him right away. She followed his soft chuckles and soft whispers all the way to the kitchen. She saw Jaime before he could see her – leaning over the kitchen counter, eyes bright and smiling. On the opposite side of the counter was a child, a girl who couldn’t have been past ten years old. Her golden curls in a loose ponytail, tied together with a black ribbon, she wore an outfit that looked like a school uniform: a grey woollen skirt and a white blouse underneath a deep red jumper. He seemed enthralled with whatever the girl was telling him.

Cersei halted on the threshold. Jaime noticed her and smiled. The girl became suddenly aware of her arrival and straightened her back before hopping off the stool. She walked up to Cersei with long, quick strides. In a sense, she looked like one of those perfect porcelain dolls: her cheeks were pink, her bangs long and curled over her eyes, her lips curved in the shape of a perfect, peachy heart. Even her teeth were pearly white when she flashed Cersei a politician’s smile. “Hi,” she said, hands linked behind her back. “I’m Joy.” Her voice was high-pitched, like most children, but more determined. “You must be Cersei. Nice to meet you. I’m your cousin. I know I’m quite younger than you, but that’s because my dad was so much younger than Uncle Tywin. His name was Gerion. I don’t believe you’ve met. It’s a shame. I’m sure he would have liked you.” She said all that without pausing.

Cersei didn’t reply. Her eyes had gone a bit wider, her lips parted. She was at a loss. “Uhm, I…” Her eyes moved to Jaime, who was watching the scene unfold with a smug smile. “Hello, Joy,” she said quickly before walking right past her. She stopped at Jaime’s side. There, she whispered: “What’s a hobbit doing in our kitchen?”

Jaime did not offer much of an explanation. He just thrust another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. “Play nice,” he told her. “You heard her. She’s Joy. She’s your cousin and she is younger than you.” He was mocking her evidently.

“Very funny,” Cersei deadpanned.

“Mint chocolate!” The bubbly intruder chimed in. She had noticed the box of chocolates in Cersei’s hands. “You have  _ great _ taste, Cersei.” The girl,  _ Joy _ , kept saying her name as if they were equal, and if she were not that short, it might have frightened her. “Isn’t that your favourite, Jaime?”

Jaime was eyeing his sister, curious. “Yes, it is.”

“Oh, is it?” Cersei lied through gritted teeth. This was not how she expected this to go. Not with an annoying child standing between them. “That’s… good to know.” She put the box down on the counter and turned to Jaime once again, turning her back on Joy. “What is she doing here?”

Jaime glance over her shoulder, and Cersei did the same. Joy had left the kitchen: her voice could be heard discussing peonies across the hallway. “Her boarding school is nearby,” Jaime explained at last. “Every now and then she drops by, when she has a free afternoon. She likes to play with the horses. Her tutors say the fresh air works wonders on her mood. They don’t have a lot of that in London.”

“Who  _ is _ Gerion?” It bothered her that she never seemed to have a full picture of her own family. Whenever she thought she knew all of them, a new relative would pop up, out of thin air. How many Lannisters could one planet hold before it imploded?

“Dad’s younger brother. He was a  _ riot _ . My fave uncle by far. Tyrion’s as well.”

“Well, where is he now?”

Jaime was tearing the corner of the chocolate box Cersei had gotten for him. “Dead.”

_ Aren’t they all. _

She watched him put a piece of chocolate in his mouth and close his eyes at the taste. She grew frustrated at Jaime’s reluctance at giving out the information she needed. “How did he die?”

“He liked to sail. I guess one day he just… never came back.” Jaime offered her a piece of chocolate, but she declined. “They never found his body though. Tyrion always says he probably set sail one day and just… kept going. Landed in Mauritius or something like that. Settled down, lives by the beach drinking Martini and eating pineapple.”

Cersei fell silent for a moment, considering the picture he had painted for her. It might have sounded heavenly for someone like Tyrion, who made of leisure his only purpose in life. But to her, to Cersei? That sounded like a right way to waste one’s life.

“She won’t bother you, Cers,” Jaime said suddenly, chuckling.

“I don’t like children,” she rebuked. She was not laughing now, and Jaime noticed. He frowned, almost concerned with her reaction. “They touch things. They  _ break _ things.”

“I can assure you she is very well behaved,” Jaime said. “She reminds me of you, you know?”

“That’s impossible,” Cersei reminded him. “You can’t remember me as a child. You did not know me.”

He pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and enveloped her in a hug. Cersei’s hands hesitated at his sides, before resting over his hips, where she decided it was safe.  _ Nothing is safe _ . He kissed the top of her head before letting her go once again. She felt the terrible loss of his arms around her.

“I’m taking her to the stables,” he told her then, taking one last chocolate from the box, popping it into his mouth.

Cersei pouted. A pang of jealousy.  _ Unbelievable _ . “Fine,” she conceded. “Just keep her out of my hair. I have things to do.”

“Like what, setting the tapestry on fire?”

Cersei grimaced, rolled her eyes. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

Jaime shrugged. “I just think there are better ways you could be spending your time than… turning the whole house upside down.” He did not give her the time to respond. Cersei watched him disappear through the backdoor, into the garden, into the sunlight. She thought about following him, asking what he meant exactly, reprimanding him for…

For what, exactly? Telling the truth?

She huffed and stalked away.

 

* * *

 

She had not seen Jaime or Joy for the rest of the afternoon. The sun had set behind the hills when she finally decided on the carpet for the main dining room and sent the order. She lowered the screen of her laptop and her eyes had begun to wander. From the French windows in her bedroom, she could see the riding grounds. Jaime was atop Brightroar, whereas Joy was on a small pony, with a cute cap and riding boots. Cersei figured she must have a locker with her things, somewhere in the stables.

The child’s presence had unsettled her for some reason she could not quite put her finger on. The girl had been nothing but polite towards her – too polite even. Ever since she had moved into Casterly Rock, Cersei had grown more possessive of what she considered hers. The house, the furniture, the legacy.  _ Jaime _ . She would hate to think she was jealous of him, especially when the other woman was ten years old and barely 4 feet tall.

_ Ridiculous _ , she told herself.

It took half an hour to prepare the bath. She lit up a few scented candles, poured herself a glass of red wine but decided to keep the whole bottle nearby all the same. She had gotten undressed in front of the full mirror, examined her body for more than necessary as per usual. Then she dipped her toes into the water and decided it was warm enough to sink in. It wasn’t half as easy as the movies made it out to be; her body did not quite sink to the bottom of the tub. She closed her eyes.

Taena had tried calling her a dozen times before giving up. She had never replied to any of her texts either. Now, she glimpsed at her cell phone, which she had forgotten by the sink. Every now and then she’d get the urge to reply.  _ You can have it all _ , she had told her that evening right before Cersei had said her final  _ ‘no’ _ . Cersei was not naïve: she knew no one could have it all. She already had more than most people could dream of achieving in a lifetime. Yet, it was not an easy thought to push out of one’s mind. The idea of wielding that kind of power, Cersei had dreamed of it most of her life.

Cersei could not tell how much time had passed since she’d stepped inside the tub, when she heard the noise outside. She sat up, trying to catch a peak of her bedroom. “Jaime?” she called out, fully expecting him to be the one on the other side. But it wasn’t.

Joy peaked in. “Nope. Just me.” Seeing the girl, Cersei did a double take and tried to gather the bubbles so that they would cover her naked body. Joy didn’t seem embarrassed, and stepped inside the bathroom without a care in the world. “Jaime told me to come looking for you.”

“Did he?” Cersei murmured to herself, annoyed. “I’m in the middle of something, can you-”

“Can I brush your hair?”

Cersei forgot that she was naked. She forgot that she did not like that child all that much. She forgot Taena, and Jaime, and Tyrion, and Robert. No one had ever brushed her hair, she realized. Not her mother, not any of her sisters. Nor had she ever brushed anyone’s hair: her stomach clenched with a loss that she could not name, else she would have to open Pandora’s box, and she could not do that, not now.

Wordlessly, she swallowed and nodded. Little Joy bounced on her feet a little, went to the sink to get a brush and dragged a stool to the edge of the bathtub. She sat down and asked Cersei to sit back. In spite of her initial unease, Cersei obliged. Joy gathered Cersei’s hair in her lap and started dividing them into smaller locks. Then, she began to brush them, staring at the tips to detangle them. “Your hair is so beautiful,” the child sighed. “Mine is way too curly. I could never grow it as long as yours.”

Cersei looked down. She had no idea how to speak to a child. She never had. The only child in her life had been Stannis Baratheon’s daughter, Shireen. Even during the few times they had visited Stannis’ family, the girl had kept mostly to herself, in her bedroom, sheltered by her mother by reason of her sickness. This child, this  _ Joy _ … she was different.

“Where’s Jaime?” Cersei asked.

“He got a phone call. He said he had to take it, and sent me here.”

Cersei nodded. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the woman and the child. Water was dripping onto the floor, fat droplets falling from Cersei’s hair. Joy brushed the hair slowly, and Cersei did nothing to rush her. It sent a pleasant and ticklish sensation to her scalp.

“I’m sorry about your mum and dad,” Joy said unexpectedly.

“What do you mean?” Cersei could not muster the courage to look over her shoulder. There was wisdom in the girl’s words, a sort of grown-up awareness that made her uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry that you never got to meet them,” Joy continued. “I never knew Aunt Joanna, but I did know Uncle Tywin. I think it’s unfair that I did and you didn’t. I wish I could give my memories to you.”

Cersei fought the urge to get up and run. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” Joy exclaimed, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, what she had just said. “My mum says you look a lot like your mum.”

“So they keep telling me,” Cersei couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “Where’s your mum? Why don’t you spend your free time with her?”

“I think she doesn’t like me all that much. I wasn’t really… in her plans.” Joy had stopped brushing her hair. Her voice did not betray any change. “Plus, I like horses. We don’t have horses at home. Jaime said Brightroar was a gift of yours. Do you like horses?”

Cersei turned in the tub to face the child. She rested her cheek on her forearms, onto the edge of the bathtub. “I do.” Joy’s eyes lit up with glee. Cersei guessed it must be because she liked the idea of having something in common with her. Cersei felt something warm and fuzzy in the pit of her stomach. “You know, maybe next time you’re here I can brush your hair instead.”

Joy smiled so wide Cersei could see all her teeth. “Oh! Yes!” She even clapped her hands once. “Yes, I would love that!”

The girl’s happiness was contagious, and Cersei found herself giggling like a girl. They were both quite taken with the complicity of the moment, and neither noticed the man standing on the threshold, arms crossed against his chest, leaning against the doorframe, watching them.

“Joy, the towncar is here,” Jaime said. “Time to go.”

Joy gasped. “Already? Can’t I stay a little longer?” Joy turned to Cersei, looking for her help.

“You know they don’t like you when you don’t respect curfew,” Jaime continued, soft. He ruffled the hair on the top of the girl’s hair, affectionately. Suddenly, the honk of a car filled the room. Jaime nodded his head towards the door. “Next time.”

Joy huffed and turned to Cersei. “Bye,” she told her, sad. Cersei let the girl kiss her cheek and watched her run off. On her way out, she hugged Jaime’s waist, tightly. “Thank you for letting me ride,” she said, before leaping out of the room.

It took the sudden realization that they were alone and that she was naked, to wipe the stupid smile off Cersei’s face. From her spot inside the bathtub, she tilted her head to watch him through her lashes; she knew perfectly well that most of the bubbles were gone. He was silent as well. In the distance, they could hear the noise of a car door slamming shut, and an engine revving.

Then, silence enveloped them once more.

He shook himself out of his trance. “I thought you did not like children,” he said, advancing and sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, looking down at her.

“I don’t,” she insisted.

“But she’s the exception?” he asked, amused.

Cersei pretended to think on it. “She’s not that bad.”

Jaime chuckled. Distractedly, he wove his fingers through her hair and started playing with it. Cersei closed her eyes and hummed for a moment, letting him. “The water has gone cold,” he told her. His voice had dropped an octave, quite suddenly. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Cersei stared at him, long and hard. “Yeah,” she said finally, averting her eyes. She stood up, with a loud sloshing at her knees. The water trailed down her body, down her legs. The hair stuck to her back. The cold air of the room sent a shiver up her arms. “Pass me the towel, please?” Jaime did not move, taken aback. Her eyes narrowed, unsure whether he was breathing or not at all. His eyes were travelling the whole expanse of her body, lingering at her breasts and between her legs.

“Cersei…” He trailed off. He sounded desperate.

“Jaime. The towel.”

With a deep sigh, he got up at last, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He grabbed the towel from the opposite wall, and returned by the bathtub holding it open. She lifted her arms and let him wrap the towel around her body, never looking away. In the process, he let his fingers linger against her skin, purposefully.

“Thank you,” she said, holding the towel tight around her.

Jaime did not reply. Instead he waited, hovering close, and Cersei knew what he wanted. Her mouth had gone dry, and her whole core pulsated with want. There was nothing between them, but for the obstacles that she had placed there herself. It would be so easy to remove them, if only she could just let go.

He didn’t give her the time to process it. It took only the one step (his) to close the distance between them. “Jaime, wait,” she tried to whisper, but he was quicker. With one hand around her waist, Jaime held her still against him. He pressed his index finger against her clit, underneath the towel, and Cersei whimpered. His finger slid across her slit, finding her embarrassingly wet. It circled her opening, as he backed her against the wall. He pressed his forehead against hers and pushed two fingers inside her at the same time.

It felt like coming home.

Their breaths mixed, harsh. Jaime’s fingers probed her, delved deeper and touched her until she gasped for air. She was clinging, desperate, to his shoulders, leaving wet spots on his baby blue shirt. His name echoed, falling from her lips, filling her up to burst. His eyes closed, his mission was clear. He moved his mouth to her earlobe, sucking it between his teeth. It sent shivers down her spine, made her legs tremble.

Words refused to come out of her mouth, but then again what could she say?  _ Stop? _ She should but she didn’t want him to. Only his name rolled off her tongue, easy like she were born with it. Like it was the first word she’d ever said.  Like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

She couldn’t move, stuck between the wall and his body. He felt safe enough to let go of her waist, if only to put a hand over her mouth as he put some pressure on her clit. She moaned, back arched into him, pushing her pelvis into his palm to increase the friction. She felt him smirk into her neck. It annoyed her that he held that sort of power over her, but she wanted this. She had never stopped wanting this ever since the night of Robert’s death.

It didn’t take her long to unravel in his hands, her muscles tensing and her breath itching in her throat, still in his embrace to ride out the high. He was panting as well, leaning back to look at her with the same damn hunger. He was waiting for a sign, a word, a nod. She stood there, against the wall, lips parted and dry, hands shaking on his forearms. She could not give him what he wanted, and he must have read it across her features because he lowered his gaze, wiped his fingers clean on her towel and pushed himself off the wall.

“I’m sorry,” she said while he was still in the room.

“For what?” Jaime turned with a frown on his face. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Cersei held the towel tight around her body. It was the first time someone told her that. The first time someone did not expect her to give something in return. It was a new feeling, something she did not know how to react to.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said softly, finally, before leaving her to her musings.

Her heart was beating so fast in her chest it would shatter her ribcage and send the pieces flying across the room. She glanced at her own reflection in the mirror, but Jaime was all she saw.

 

* * *

 

Cersei decided to eat by herself. She was not ashamed of what had happened, but she decided Jaime might need the personal space. They brought dinner up to her bedroom, and she ate on the small balcony overlooking the lawn. She ate in silence, mostly, sipping from her wine to take off the edge from the day. Jaime would no doubt wonder about her absence, but eventually he would understand she had done this for him.

Her thoughts went to Joy. The little blonde girl had made her way into Cersei’s heart, unknowingly. Joy had awakened thoughts and hopes she had long buried, things she did not care to remember now, of all times. It was useless.

She switched on the television, hoping it would distract her. She flicked through the channels, mindlessly, for half an hour. She could not focus on anything she saw or heard. On the screen, an endless parade of known faces and familiar themes that failed to draw her attention or lighten her mood. The day had been too much.

It was around 10.30p.m. when she finally decided staying in her bedroom would do her no good this time around. She wandered aimlessly across the first floor. She heard noises coming from Tyrion’s room and lingered outside. There had been a time when she might have knocked, but life had gone and spoiled that as well. She knew, if she were to knock, he wouldn’t be forthcoming. She continued to Jaime’s bedroom. It was empty. Her brother had not yet come upstairs.

That was when she heard it. A gentle tune coming from downstairs. She recognized the key of a piano and a melody from a long time ago. She followed it, curious to find out its origin. She walked down the main flight of stairs, where the music became louder, and into the ballroom, where she located the source.

Jaime sat at the piano, his fingers running across the keyboard. He was not very good at it, but he wasn’t half bad either. The melody was quite graceful, albeit a tad rusty.

“I didn’t know you could play,” she said.

He stopped abruptly. “When I was very young I had trouble reading,” he said, without acknowledging her entrance. “A teacher suggested I should take piano lessons. He insisted that if I learned how to read music sheets it would be easier for me to read the actual letters.”

The ballroom was quite large, and it looked even larger now that it was empty, save for her brother sitting at the piano, alone. She walked across the hall, came to a halt right beside him. “Scoot,” she said.

He looked up for a moment. Then, he scooted over and made space for her. She sat down next to him. “I never learned how to play,” she said, pressing a finger to a key.

“Shame. You would have been good at it. You have the right attitude.”

“You mean obsession?”

“I mean determination,” he smiled at her. “I can teach you, if you want.” Jaime pressed his finger over hers over a black key. The sound was long and it rang hopeful.

Cersei studied his profile. Her brother had never looked quite that melancholic, and Cersei felt guilty: she was afraid she was sucking the life from him. Pining for love did not suit him. And he loved her, yes he loved her. She had never known a love like the one Jaime was offering, and she kept declining. Why was it that hard to let him love her?

“I wanted children.” It came out sudden; the words tumbled from her lips. “For a long time, I wanted children. Before Robert became…what he became. I desperately wanted children. I wanted something to call my own. Someone.” She corrected herself, and that alone told her perhaps it was right that she never had any – children were not things. “In hindsight, maybe it was for the best. I would have been a shit mother.”

Jaime didn’t speak – he was watching her closely now. Cersei focused on the piano keys: she was afraid of looking into his eyes, afraid of what she would find there, staring back. Then, wordlessly, he put his hands on the keyboard and started playing. It was not the same tune as before. His fingers gliding across the keyboard, his shoulder touching hers: she never wanted to leave.

“Do you still want them?” he asked over the music.

After a long while, she whispered: “What are you asking?”

“I am asking if you still want children of your own.”

He kept on playing for a while. The silence around them was louder than the music coming from the piano. It filled her ears, exploding inside her head. She tried to picture them: small, golden haired beauties with green eyes and little feet she could kiss. She could almost feel the weight of their tiny hands in hers, the softness of their skin against her breasts. She could see their faces, imagine what it would be like to feed them, dress them, hold them. They had no names, in her head, but they were perfect.

He stopped playing, again, and turned on the seat. He put a finger under her chin, made her look up. “I can give you children, if you want them. I told you. I will give you everything you want, Cersei.” Even though he had stopped playing, Cersei’s brain was still registering the same tune. “Everything.”

Cersei opened her mouth to speak...

A loud noise coming from the entrance took them by surprise. They heard hurried footsteps approaching. 

Tyrion barged in, seemingly infuriated. His eyes were on Jaime, hard, accusatory. “You sold Lannister Ltd.?!” he bellowed. “To Oberyn Martell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh, we truly in it now, aren't we?   
> Can't wait to share with you what's left of this story - but you're going to have to wait two weeks to know what happens next. That is, February 12th (which is not a tuesday, but it's the boyfriend's birthday on the 11th, gotta give him that day at least!)  
> Alas, consider it a coward's way to make it last a little longer.   
> Much love to everyone.  
> Yours always and truly,  
> f.


	29. everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a choice is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello beautiful peeps. First of all allow me to apologize for the delay of this update. I was supposed to post last week, but then work happened and it was really hard for me to juggle and actually find time to write. And I would rather not update at all than update with something subpar, I love this story too much to give it only a half-assed attention. Which is why this chapter took a while longer. For quite a long time this was going to be the last chapter, but then things happened and, as per usual, this story got away from me, so what was supposed to be a short epilogue turned into a fully formed chapter (which you will read a bit further down the road, but for that you'll have to wait the notes after the chapter).   
> As some of you know, it is my intention to write a sequel. I already have a lot of the plot in my head, but I also need a break, which is why it won't happen util later in the year. Why am I saying this? Because like all serial narrative, there can't be a second season if you don't have a cliffhanger of sorts. A story must be ever-changing, ever-evolving. Which is why, if you are happy with this story as it is and will not be reading the sequel, I suggest you treat this as the final chapter and skip the next one altogether - I respect your choice to do so, I know some people don't enjoy series! And I thank you for sticking with this little piece of me for so long! :3  
> As for the rest of you... I'll see you after.  
> f.

When Tyrion had confronted him with proof of the sale, Jaime had told him he was tired of being responsible for the company. Bitterly, he had reminded Tyrion that their father had always cared more about that building than his own children. Just as bitterly, Tyrion had accused him of being spoilt rotten, and privileged enough not to know what it really meant not to have Tywin’s affections. That if anyone could hold a grudge against that place it was  _ him _ , Tyrion, not Jaime. The youngest Lannister sibling had continued, saying he had given away the family’s only asset. Jaime had insisted that their wealth did not originate from that company, but from their title.

Cersei had not spoken much during the confrontation between the two of them. It wasn’t as much that she realized it was not her place, but rather the fact that she could not help feeling betrayed. He had gone and given away the one thing she had asked of him. She was in shock.

Lannister Ltd. represented Cersei’s only link with Tywin, it was as simple as that. When she had gone and asked him to give her a role in the company, what she was really asking was for a place in the family, the chance to discover herself as a Lannister, as Tywin Lannister’s trueborn daughter. It might have been Cersei’s only way to find out what she was made of, and Jaime had given it away.

Cersei had deluded herself into thinking she knew him. One year ago Jaime had knocked on her door with a birth certificate and an unbelievable story. She had let him into her home, into her life. There had been secrets but Cersei had thought they were past that. She had hoped he might trust her: he surely expected her to trust  _ him _ . He had filled her head with pretty lies about giving her everything, and she had weighed her options. She had believed him.

Jaime and Tyrion went on for most of the night, well into the wee hours of early morning. She had excused herself around midnight, and Jaime had not even made a move to follow her. His and Tyrion’s voices could be heard across the halls of the mansion, yelling accusations at each other.

She could not sleep, that night. Long after the yelling had stopped, she sat on the chaise-longue in her night attire and waited for something she knew would come. And it did. She heard the knocking and said, “Come in,” without looking up. She heard the door open and close, and her brother’s presence in the room.  _ A different brother. _ “He fucked up.”

“He did,” Tyrion replied.

“What do we do now?” Cersei asked, looking up at least. She made no move to make room for him.

“Us? The estranged daughter and the dwarf son? Don’t make me laugh.” He sounded defeated and Cersei did not like that. Whatever issue she had with Tyrion, it originated from sharing a common ground. He could challenge her, he could push her over the limit. But only as long as they both could fight, as long as they both had hope for something. “Dad thought he was doing something, leaving him all the power. He thought I was the one who would destroy his legacy.”

Cersei struggled to reconcile her idea of Jaime with her brother’s actions. He would never willingly destroy something Tywin had entrusted him with. She had not known him for long, but she knew he craved his father’s approval. It was all he ever wanted. And then…

_ And then he wanted me. _

“Why did he do that?” she asked Tyrion.

He shrugged. “Beats me. Where do you keep the booze?” Cersei pointed at the baroque cabinet nearby the bathroom door. Neither argued that 4 am might be too late for a drink. They were beyond that. Tyrion opened the cabinet, rummaged among the bottles until he found something to his liking. But then he hesitated. He could not quite reach the glasses. “Can you-”

Cersei sighed. “Don’t you hate it?” She got up, grabbed two glasses and held them out of reach for a moment. Tyrion stared, waiting for the punchline. She obliged. “Asking for help. Don’t you hate it?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Tyrion’s eyes were hard. She felt powerful in that moment, knowing he needed her. “You’re certainly not making it any easier.” Cersei’s lips quivered, holding back a smirk. She gave up, put the glasses down on the counter where he could reach them. “We need to work together.”

“You don’t work with anyone, Tyrion,” Cersei said, returning to her chaise-longue. She laid back, put her legs up and watched him pour a generous amount into both glasses. “You plot, and scheme, and lie. Especially lie. That’s what you do best. Lie.”

“Takes one to know one,” Tyrion said, offering her one glass. “Is this about the elections?”

“Maybe.”

“Why are you that angry? It’s not like I need to ask for your permission.” Tyrion moved Cersei’s feet, ignoring her grimace. He sat down at the end of the chaise-longue. He  _ climbed _ on it. Oh how she hated to watch him waddle, with his little stunted legs. It didn’t bother her at first. It bothered her now. Why?

“I just… Why should it be you?” She voiced her concerns. “Why couldn’t it be someone else?”

“Why does it bother you so much that it’s me?” Tyrion sipped the drink, pretended to be deep in thoughts. “Oh wait, is it because you can’t get me to do your bidding like you did with Robert?” Tyrion looked her up and down. “Like you do with Jaime?”

Cersei smiled. “You just can’t stand it. Knowing he loves  _ me _ more than he loves you.”

“In all fairness, you’re using unconventional weapons.”

Cersei let the silence linger after that sentence. She sipped from her glass and averted her eyes. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m quite sure of the opposite,” Tyrion replied. Both were doing their best to look elsewhere. “The board has called for an emergency meeting tomorrow morning.” The change of subject was abrupt, but Cersei welcomed it. It wouldn’t do them any good to dwell on Cersei and Jaime’s relationship now, of all times. “I want you to be there as well.”

“What for?” Cersei scoffed. “I count even less than you. I wasn’t even a Lannister until not so long ago.”

“But you are now. It must count for something.”

“Does it?”

Tyrion downed the last of his alcohol. “I wouldn’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Cersei could hear her own heart beating in time with the clicking of her heels. Escorted by two men, one of whom she’d only seen the night of Robert’s demise, she followed Tyrion down the huge marble hallway that led to the lift. As the doors slid shut, her stomach churned. Up and up they went, silent except for the obnoxious whistling by one of her brother’s lackeys. Even Tyrion had scarcely said a word the whole morning.

Stepping into the Lannister Ltd. offices that morning felt like a declaration of war. Cersei saw the employees look up as they passed, whispering among themselves, wondering what kind of thunderstorms would befall the company. The news of the sale had gone public fairly quickly the night before, Cersei couldn’t tell whether it had been Jaime’s intention or not. In fact, she could not tell much of Jaime’s motives at all because her brother had purposefully avoided her. She had half expected him to pay her a visit the night before, just as Tyrion had. He had not. He had not even been at the breakfast table that morning. He had distanced himself from Tyrion and Cersei alike. She was struggling to understand his moves, and that ignorance wounded her pride. One thing she liked about him was she could read him like a book, no lies and no games.

Not this time.

She saw him in the conference room, through the tall glass walls. Oberyn Martell was already sitting next to him. Seeing her there didn’t seem to take Jaime by surprise. He merely nodded when she and Tyrion walked in. Kevan and the rest of the board were already there by the time Cersei and Tyrion made their entrance.

“Why is she here?” Kevan asked.

“Because this is family business,” Tyrion answered, without sparing his uncle a second look.

Cersei sat down next to Tyrion, but her eyes focused on Jaime just as his focused on hers. If there ever had been a barricade between them, that was it. She could not hide the disappointment, but she could not silence the part of her that wanted to walk up to him and shake him back to sanity.  _ This is not you _ , she wanted to tell him, and then,  _ you can’t do this to me.  _ But Jaime looked away, focusing on the papers that lay in front of him on the table.

Cersei took notice that she was the only woman at that table.

Jaime and Oberyn exchanged a look, then her brother stood up.

“My father was obsessed with the idea of legacy. His vision was perfect, in a sense. A Lannister company, a whole Lannister company, forever ruled by a Lannister man,” Jaime began.

“Yes, and now you’re trying to fuck it all up,” Kevan chimed in, harsh.

Jaime ignored him. “Before he died, my father changed the Articles of Association, as most of you know. He added a clause that states that in order to maintain the integrity of the Lannister Ltd. it is impossible to split the shares or divide the company in any capacity between members of the same family. Technically, that is a rule to prevent favouritisms of all sorts. As you know, this is also a load of horseshit. The sole reason my father did this was so I could not share the ownership of this company with my brother, Tyrion, whom my father never liked very much.” Jaime paused again.

“Understatement,” Tyrion deadpanned.

Oberyn looked thoroughly entertained in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, playing with his stupid moustache. Cersei hated that moustache, and even more, she hated the smirk underneath it.

“It’s been almost a year since my father passed. We’ve been struggling, trying to live in a world without him. It has not been easy. He was so… large. Cumbersome. Invasive. Fundamental.” The last word, Jaime almost whispered to himself. Cersei caught that. Then, with renewed strength, he continued. “But here we are. And regardless, one must move on.” He picked up the papers before him, regarded them fondly for a second before putting them down in front of Oberyn Martell. “This is an act of purchase. It’s taken me a year to come to terms with what I want, and it’s not what my father gave me.”

His eyes lingered on Cersei now. She felt it everywhere in her body, the shiver it sent. Her fingers clenched in her lap, hidden from everyone’s scrutiny. Her stomach churned.

“Jaime, this is ridiculous,” Kevan thundered, “If you’re trying to make a statement, fine. Enough with the games. If you don’t want the responsibility just… anyone else in this board will sign the bloody papers. But it doesn’t have to be a  _ Martell _ .” That word, spat out like it was venom, made Oberyn chuckle.

“Uncle, don’t you think if my father wanted any of these people to rule the company he would have named them his successor, instead of me? Or… say,  _ you _ ? He knew perfectly well I didn’t want this. Yet he preferred to take his chances with me instead of the lot of you.”

Tyrion whistled, shifting his gaze upon his uncle, as did most of the onlookers. Kevan scoffed and laid back against the chair, a lion licking his wounds. Jaime’s eyes scanned the room, as if daring someone else to speak up now or be silent forever.

“So you would rather give it to someone you yourself told me you don’t trust.”

When she spoke, Cersei’s voice was clear as daylight in the room. None of the men had expected her to have a say, it showed in the confusion on their face. Some even turned in their seat to get a better view of her. Oberyn Martell leaned with both elbows against the table, arms crossed over the act of purchase. He looked… enthralled.

Jaime looked away. “Oh, quite the opposite. I’m giving it to someone I trust very much.” He made a gesture to someone on the outside. A woman rushed into the conference room, carrying a folder that looked quite heavy and dropped it right in front of Oberyn Martell. “You see, I sold Lannister Ltd. to Oberyn Martell yesterday.” A roar erupted around the table.

Jaime smiled. His seemingly good mood was beginning to infuriate her. How could he be so casual about this? Why did he trust Oberyn Martell all of a sudden? How could Jaime ignore her, Tyrion, their uncle? Wasn’t family supposed to mean everything to him?

Oberyn stood up, at last. “Gentlemen, please. No need for all this fuss. I’m sure we’ll be doing wonderful things together. But, see, the thing is…” Oberyn continued. He was skimming through the papers that had just been brought to him. “I’m not good at the whole executive thing. I prefer action. I prefer money. I prefer sex. Executing is just a whole lot of paper and a whole lot of boredom. I think I’ll stay on as CFO.” Oberyn turned to Jaime. “This is absolutely my favourite part,” he told him with a knowing smile. “Because  _ I _ am not a Lannister. Which means that  _ I _ can sell the company to any Lannister I prefer.”

In that moment, Cersei felt part of a whole, unique being, breathing in unison around that table. Instantly, everything was clear to her, and she knew everything must be clear to Tyrion because she saw his shoulders fall. Oberyn looked at her, pushed the new act of purchase across the table, in her direction. The papers scattered a little, but it slid and halted right before her eyes.

No one spoke for a long minute. Kevan’s eyes were bulging, hands fisted. Tyrion was looking at Jaime, incredulous. Oberyn winked. “Cersei, we’re going to have so much fun together.”

 

* * *

 

The sun had set, and the employees had gone home. The whole of Lannister Ltd. was shrouded in darkness, exception made for the orange glow of a few table lamps. Cersei had lost count of how long she had been there, sitting on the uncomfortable chair just outside the Executive office. The doors were closed, but she knew what awaited on the other side. She had counted the stripes in the marble of the pavements, skimmed through every paper in the waiting area. She knew by heart what every motivational poster hanging on the walls recited.

Most of the afternoon she had taken care of all bureaucracy. A sale that big entailed a lot of papers and a lot of signatures and a lot of statements. Things Cersei was not prepared for, but which she took in full stride.

Tyrion and Kevan had not been happy about the change. Whereas Kevan’s bitterness was unjustified – Jaime was right, if Tywin had wanted the company to be handed to him he would have just done so himself – Tyrion’s situation would be trickier. Jaime had made a choice, and he had chosen her, plain and simple. Tyrion had wanted the company as much as her, and longer. Yet, when push came to shove, Jaime’s plan had been for Cersei, not his little brother.

_ You’re using unconventional weapons _ .

Tyrion’s words came to mind. She knew why Jaime had done this, she knew what moved him. She knew what this was, and that was the reason she had yet to find the strength to walk through those doors and face him. No one had ever gone to such lengths for her. She could not doubt him anymore. There was no excuse. Save for the fact that he was her brother, and that seemed so small now, in the greater picture.

Small enough that she finally stood up and knocked on his door.

“Come in,” came the voice she knew.

She found him sitting behind the desk that had been his for almost a year. He had already cleared most of his desk, all of his belongings sat in a box on the sofa. The last time Cersei had been here, that desk had seemed too big for him, and now… now it seemed too small. She saw him and he was golden, perfect,  _ hers _ . “You are out of your mind,” she breathed, unable to hold back a smile.

Jaime shrugged. “Sorry it had to come with a Martell attached. He was the only person who had the money for the transaction. It was necessary to make it look real.”

“I can deal with a Martell,” she said, closing the door behind her. “What about Tyrion?”

Jaime sighed. “Yeah, that. Well, he’ll get over it once he’s elected Prime Minister,” he said, jokingly. “Why are you still here?”

Cersei circled the desk. “Well it is my company now.”

Jaime nodded. “That it is.”

Cersei looked out the tall window, as the City lights made their appearance in the twilight. It was a beautiful palette, orange and red mixing with blue and purple and black. It took her breath away, looking at it and thinking:  _ mine _ .

“How do you like your office?” Jaime asked, spinning the armchair around to look at her.

“Might have to redecorate this one, as well,” she said over her shoulder, knowing it would make him laugh, And it did. He laughed, and Cersei’s heart skipped a beat at the realization that was what happiness must feel like, and that she had never felt it before with anyone but him. “What are you going to do now?”

“Well, I figured you might assign me to run an office somewhere cool. Like, Italy. I hear our office in Rome is in Trinità dei Monti and it’s superb.”

Cersei spun on her heels. “Italy? Why?”

“I could use the change of scenery,” Jaime said, looking around. “For a bit. Time to decompress. Time to get rid of a bad habit.” He looked at her now, pointedly. “Rehab, if you will.”

Cersei looked at her feet. “So you’re running away.”

Jaime hesitated, his lips parted, looking up at her as if to study the meaning behind her words. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Cersei swallowed.

_ Choose,  _ she told herself.

She took a step towards him. She was towering him. “You don’t have my leave to go.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes at her; in spite of the height disadvantage, she did not feel more powerful than him. Quite the opposite. “I don’t need your permission, I was asking as a formality,” he reminded her.

_ Choose, _ she told herself again, this time louder.

“You can’t leave me here alone, in this mess,” she reprimanded him. “Tyrion hates me, Kevan hates me, the whole family hates me. You’re the only one who loves--” Cersei stopped talking abruptly, like she was scared of saying the word. The silence that lingered around them threatened to weigh them both down. “Stay.”

Jaime rose from the chair, ever so slowly. “What for?”

She waited. And waited. And then she realized, with sudden clarity, that she could not wait anymore.

“Fuck me,” she said.

Jaime looked away, letting out a shaky breath. “That’s not a solution. That’s the  _ problem _ .” Still when he turned around his eyes were darker and his shoulders tense. “Don’t ask me--”

“I’m asking you to fuck me.”  She closed the distance between them. “Fuck me now.” She inched closer still, lips kissing the hollow of his neck. “And tonight.” She fidgeted with his belt, unbuckling it. His shaky breathing spurred her further. “And tomorrow.” She unzipped the trouser, let them pool onto the floor. “And the day after that.” She knelt before him, gazing up, adoring. “And the day after.” She pulled his briefs down, freed his erection. His knees buckled. She pushed him backwards, against the desk. “Every day.”

She swallowed the whole length of him, and his eyes snapped shut. “Fuck,” she heard him, and she hummed around him, gliding her tongue up the underside. His knuckles went white where he gripped the edge of the desk. She noticed that and put her hands over his, giving him permission.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, looking down.

“You can’t,” she replied, kissing the tip of his cock.

She took his hands and guided them to the back of her head. There, his fingers wove through her hair, and she felt him set a rhythm. She liked that, liked his veins pulsating under her tongue, liked how his breath itched every time she added suction or angled her throat to take him deeper. She liked knowing he would do and say anything in that moment.

It didn’t last long, and even though he tried to warn her she kept at it, stubborn and determined, until he came spilling in her mouth. She made no fuss, and swallowed. Then she kept licking the length of him, still semi-hard, nibbling the soft skin with her teeth until he shivered. “Stop that,” he chuckled, panting still.

Cersei sat back on his heels and looked up at him, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. He struggled to get rid of his shirt and step out of the mess she’d made of his trousers and briefs around his ankles, and it made her laugh a little. He laughed too, getting rid of the hindrance at last and grabbing her unceremoniously by the elbow, pulling her on her feet and backing her against the desk like she had just done to him. He pulled her skirt up around her waist and hoisted her up onto the desk – their father’s desk, Cersei’s brain registered in the midst of all that – and pushed her back onto the cold surface. She, lifted her lower half to help him get rid of her panties. Before she had a chance to say anything he had gone and buried his face between her thighs, his mouth latching on her clit.

She moaned, quite loudly, and realized she had not locked the door.

And then she could almost see him: Tywin Lannister, standing in the corner of what used to be his office, staring as they fucked upon the remains of what he’d built.  _ Fuck you _ , she thought,  _ I won. _ In the end, with Jaime’s tongue drawing infinite patterns inside her, and his hands fondling her breasts over her white blouse, and his seed still drying in her throat, she knew she had taken everything from the man who had taken everything first.

His name left her lips repeatedly, as the sky outside turned pitch black. Until it became undiscernible from her moaning and her cursing, and she came unravelled in his hands, bathing in moonlight, sweat beading on her skin.

The muscles in her legs quivered, and he grabbed them harshly to hold them over his hips. He pulled her up, her chest pressed into his, bodies gliding against each other easily. The moonlight shed a light blue over his marbled skin, highlighting everything sharp about him, and caressing everything soft. He pressed his forehead against hers: with his eyes closed, he listened to her breathing slowly recovering. She circled his waist with both arms, clinging to him, pulling him impossibly closer. They were a creature of flesh, and limbs, and sweat, together, inseparable.

When he entered her, it was slower at first. She gasped and he moaned against her shoulder, teeth sinking into her skin until fully sheathed. He pulled back just enough to watch her when his hips snapped once more. He slid her ass to the edge of the desk, pulled her thighs higher up to change the angle, and thrust again. She yelped at that. Fingernails digging into his back.

It was hard to believe this was only the second time they did this. Deep inside, Cersei had never felt this sort of familiarity before. His smell alone was enough to soothe her and make her feel at home. Like she was born with it – and she was.

He began to fuck her slow and steady, revelling in the small noises it elicited from her. She could tell the cornerstone of his pleasures was hers – every time she moaned a little louder, every time she asked for something, for anything (“Harder,” “Please,” “Oh fuck, fuck, yes,”) he answered in kind. And as they fucked their sweat mixed, as did their smell, to form a new one that was theirs and theirs alone.

She had wanted everything and he had given her everything.

He would not be going to Italy.

A familiar tingle at her navel and Jaime quickened his pace when her inner walls tightened around his cock. That was when she came the second time. He drove inside her repeatedly, hard as a rock still, helping her up that height and then down from it. He rocked her in his embrace, with one hand at the small of her back and the other at her neck. She whimpered against him when he went and thrust once again, still weak from the second orgasm. “I can’t,” she let out.

He slid a hand between them, rubbing her clit once. “You can.” And twice. “With me, you can.” Her whimpering turned to moaning once again. She couldn’t tell what it was about him: he knew exactly where and when and how to touch her. Just as she was sure her body could take no more, there she was, purring once more, begging him to fuck her still, fuck her harder, fuck her until she could stand no more.

Is that what addicts feel? One more hit, one more hit to reach that height.

_ One more hit, Jaime, I beg _ .

“Come here,” he whispered, stepping back and letting her off the desk. Immediately she mourned the loss inside her, and just as she was nearing her third climax. He took her by the hand, spun her around and guided her to the tall window. All around them, were office buildings. Most of them would likely be closed that late at night. Yet, the glow behind a few windows made her shiver. Behind her, he circled her waist to keep her close to him. “Are you afraid people will see?” she hummed in her ear.

Cersei was trembling. “Yes.” She reached behind her. He hissed as her fingers closed around his cock with a firm grip. She stroked him, wet with her own juices and his precum. He bent her over then, slapped her hand away and drove inside her. This time she took it, slammed back against him, leaning against the window for balance.

Jaime held onto her hips, driving into her harder and harder. “I’ll kill them,” he said suddenly, as he was still fucking her, and Cersei knew he was dead serious. “The whole bloody lot of them. Until you and I are the only ones left in this world.”

As they both came, that night, Jaime’s threat lingered with them. With the both of them breathing hard as they tried to regain some composure, Cersei knew he would not make an idle threat. Just like she had known he would have killed Robert if she had not killed him first.

Cersei saw Jaime disappear into the attached bathroom, looking for something to clean himself up. “We could just stay here all night,” he called out to her, chipper like a schoolboy.

She peaked in from the doorframe. “I’m sure the cleaners would love to get a glimpse of  _ that _ ,” she said, looking at his ass. Then she glanced at the bathroom. “I’m going to have a shower installed.”

“Why, you planning on doing a lot of  _ this _ at the office?” he said, using a towel to wipe most of the sweat away.

She pretended to be thinking. “Maybe. With my new position I’m about to meet a lot of eligible businessmen, and I am newly widowed so--” Jaime tackled her before she had a chance to finish what she was saying. She burst out laughing. “I’m just saying, you can’t expect  _ me _ to remain single forever, have you  _ seen _ me!” she joked as she tried to escape his hand over her mouth.

He was laughing along, but eventually he managed to press his palm against her mouth and shut her up. It was playful, how they looked at each other over his hand. There was a warmth, and a sense of safety. Like she knew no harm could come to her as long as she had him. He had promised her so.

And even when he pulled his hand away, she was still smiling.

“There is only me,” he said.

Cersei smiled and nodded. “Only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH! MY! GOD! THE SUGAR!  
> Alright, a bit of info now: the last chapter will be out on March 10th. We'll say our goodbyes, eat scones and drink pepsi, but more importantly, I'll tell you a bit more about what I'm going to do about the second installment. I'm excited, really excited. But also, can't wait to read your comments on this one! Drop me a line if you wish, I always love reading your thoughts! <3  
> Much love to Cait and Nadia for helping me with this, as usual. <3  
> And much love to all of you! :)


	30. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things come to an end... and others begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people. Today is the day. Today is the end. And the beginning, in a way. Perihelion will have a second installment, so this is not the last we see of ours truly. And by the time you reach the end of the chapter... you'll see why!
> 
> On a more serious note... As some of you know, I am italian. And Italy is going through a hard time. The outbreak of the new coronavirus threatens to bring our country's health system on its knees. ICUs are bursting, there are no ventilators to accomodate all the patients in need. Doctors are already talking of having to choose which patients to assist according to those who have better life expectancy. The government has taken extra precautions, in order to try and contain the risk of epidemy - which, allow me to say, is already at our door.   
> Why am I writing this? Two reasons.
> 
> The first one is to invite anyone who has a chance to donate, even a small amount can help save lives. You can find the fundraiser here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/coronavirus-terapia-intensiva
> 
> The second reason is to warn you: this is not a normal flu. No matter what they tell you, now, we've been there before you. And look at us now. Stay inside. Avoid social interactions as much as possible. This virus spreads fast. It's not the virus itself that is concerning - the mortality rate is quite low - it's the consequences. Our global health systems and ICUs don't have the means to face this all in one wave. They need smaller numbers. They need beds and ventilators. They need to be able to take care of everyone, and to take care of everyone there needs to be fewer sick people at once. This is the time for sacrifice: don't tell yourself, "It won't happen to me, it won't happen to my country." It will. Before you know it, there will be thousands in the ICUs. It does happen to you. Stay in, I cannot stress this enough. Avoid crowded places. Don't see your friends for a couple of weeks if necessary, they will still be there next month. 
> 
> If you're not careful, your grandparents, your weaker loved ones... may not.
> 
> Stay in. Stay safe.
> 
> Much love to everyone,
> 
> f.

_ One month later _

 

The rays of early sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains. A movement on the mattress woke him up. Jaime refused to open his eyes for some time, hoping to go back to sleep. Aware of his surroundings, he caught a whiff of perfume. The corners of his lips curved upwards, imperceptible. A tickle on his chest.

“I told you it’s weird to stare at people when they’re sleeping,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. He didn’t need to see her to  _ see  _ her.

“But I like you when you sleep,” she purred, inching closer.

Jaime could feel every curve in her body through the nightgown. He reached out, blindly, and she let him wrap his arm around her. Hell, she curled in his embrace, resting her head on his chest. Jaime cherished the warmth of her body, the weight of it on his. He tilted his head to sniff her hair. She laughed.

“And  _ I _ am the weird one,” she mocked him. “Sniffer.” At last, he decided it was time to open his eyes. He watched the crown of blonde hair resting on his torso, kissed the top of the woman’s head. She looked up, eyes as green as his, his mirror image. “Hey,” she said, soft as a summer peach.

“Hey,” he murmured. He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose. Then he began to shift on the mattress, angling his body to face hers. His hands had already begun to get too demanding, slipping under the fine silk to find skin.

“I love Sunday mornings,” Cersei sighed, pushing her pelvis against his groin. He smiled, latching onto a hard nipple over the thin fabric that she wore. “Can’t think of a better way to praise the Lord.” Jaime stopped his ministrations suddenly, rolled on his back with a groan. Cersei was taken aback. “What is it? Why did you stop?”

Jaime huffed, throwing one arm over his eyes. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

Cersei narrowed her eyes. “Yes.” He didn’t like where this was going already. “And…?”

“It’s  _ that _ Sunday,” Jaime whined. He saw Cersei’s expression go from one of confusion to one of annoyance. He did not want to talk about this, not again. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

“Like what,” she deadpanned, one eyebrow shot up. “Like you’d rather have brunch with Tyrion and the Party than fuck me?”

Jaime rolled on his side once again, draped a leg over hers and started placing butterfly kisses along her jawline. “You know there’s nothing in the world I’d rather be doing than  _ you _ .” With nimble fingers, he began to toy with her nipple, against his better judgment: he liked how her face relaxed every time he did that. He glimpsed the clock on her bedside table. He absolutely did not have time to do this, he had to be in the City by noon and it was pushing 10.30am already. “I promise I’ll be back in no time. And we can…” his eyes wandered across her body, as he struggled to tear himself from her. “…resume.”

As he pushed himself off the bed, he could feel the tension radiating from her. “You know, this is not the solution,” she stated.

“It’s the only reason why Tyrion is still speaking to me,” Jaime reminded her. Naked as a new-born baby, he made his way to the bathroom, knowing she would be watching. He halted on the threshold, turned around to take one last look. “And beside, who else am I going to endorse? Renly? Or worse… Stannis? Tyrion is obviously the better candidate.” He paused. Cersei looked dubious, sitting upright in bed with her hands folded against her chest. “Besides, I owe him,” Jaime said, final.

It was obvious she did not agree with him. They had spoken many times about this. Cersei thought Tyrion was being a baby, and that his disappointment was just jealousy because Jaime had given something to her rather than him. But Cersei did not know Tyrion half as well as Jaime did. Tyrion’s wounds went deeper than that, and Jaime couldn’t help feeling guilty: he did not regret giving Cersei what she wanted, but he wished Tyrion didn’t have to pay the price for it.  

Endorsing his campaign and meeting with the Party to ensure Tyrion’s candidacy was the least he could do, and it had helped put back together the pieces of what he had broken. Cersei might not agree with it, but Jaime pinned it to sibling rivalry. She was competitive and possessive. He liked that she got so vicious about him – she was no good at showing she cared in any other way.

He was already in the shower, under the steaming hot jet, when she peaked through the glass. “You know,” she began, “there must be a reason why Tywin didn’t trust Tyrion.”

“Yeah,” Jaime said, “He was an asshole and Tyrion is a dwarf. That’s all there is to it.”

Cersei began to draw patterns with her finger across the foggy glass of the shower. “I’m just saying, maybe he is not the best candidate. Just because he is family… you shouldn’t let that cloud your judgment.”

She was beginning to unnerve him. What a way to ruin a perfectly good day. “You’re just being a brat now,” he told her, trying to ignore her as he poured the shampoo in the palm of his hand. Then he began to massage his scalp. “You’ve been downright awful to him ever since you learnt he wanted to run. Why? You got what you wanted. Let  _ him _ have something.”

Cersei did not answer. In fact, she remained silent for a long time. Too long a time, he realized as he rinsed. When he turned around, she was gone: the only evidence she was even in the room in the first place was the tiny pattern on the shower glass. Underneath, she had drawn what looked like a word. It read, ‘ _ No. _ ’

 

* * *

 

In the back of the car, Jaime and Tyrion were uncomfortable. Actually, they had been uncomfortable together for the past month. Jaime hated to think his brother no longer trusted him, but he could not entirely blame him. He had played dirty and favoured Cersei quite openly. With his move, he had discredited Tyrion not only to the rest of his family, but to the world of sharks they lived in. Tyrion Lannister had been known to be the smartest man in London for years. What was he now?

The dwarf who had been played by his own brother.

That had not been Jaime’s intention at all, as he had told him many times. He had apologized profusely, told him he never meant to hurt him. Tyrion, who preferred passive-aggression to outward hostility, had given him the cold shoulder for a full fortnight. Then, one morning, he had waltzed into the kitchen telling him he could make it up to him by helping him with the campaign. Jaime, who spent his days fucking Cersei and watching cricket, was more than happy to find a way to patch things up with Tyrion.

Of course, that had not meant things had gone back to the way they were. They hardly ever did, after a betrayal. Still, Jaime felt they were going in the right direction.

“Have you heard from Uncle Kevan at all?” Jaime asked, lifting his eyes from his phone at last.

Tyrion was still very much focused on his and replied without looking up. “He’s still not returning my calls,” Tyrion said. “Aunt Genna did though, and she called you an airy-fairy.”

Jaime groaned, looking out the window. “That’s nice.”

Tyrion chuckled. “It could be worse,” he said, finally putting the phone in his breast-pocket. “She could have called you an arse-licking trollop.” Jaime frowned. “That’s what she called Cersei.”

Jaime shook his head. In the span of twenty-four hours, he had managed to turn the whole family against Cersei and himself. That had been a side effect he had foreseen, though he had hoped it would take them less to see reason. One month had gone by, and the rest of the Lannister clan was still very much outraged about the whole thing. He had lost count of the amount of solicitors involved in the matter. Tyrion had been the only one who had not hired a lawyer.

“They’ll get over it, eventually,” Tyrion said, as if he’d been reading his thoughts. “I swear Aunt Genna sees something in Cersei, deep down. Deep,  _ deep _ down.”

Jaime nodded to himself, lost in the scenery outside the window. Most people did not know that meeting with the Party meant meeting with  a very narrow group of people who decided the fate of Labour politics in the country. Namely, those people were Olenna Tyrell, Illyrio Mopatis and a mysterious redhead woman who went by the name of Melisandre. Olenna Tyrell was the eldest Tyrell, and as such, she provided most of the money for all Labour campaigns… if she deemed the adversary worth it. Illyrio Mopatis had built himself up from nothing: a Polish immigrant, he had built a reputation and was now an expert on foreign feelings. Which meant he knew what candidate would work best with foreign countries, and which ones would fail miserably. No one knew what the Melisandre woman knew or did, but her vote counted just as much as the other two. They needed two out of three.

Jaime was concerned about Olenna Tyrell. After his move of excluding the tyrells from the Lannister trading business, he was sure the old woman had it in for Jaime. But now that the company belonged to his sister, Olenna might see it as an advantage to slither back into the deal. Illyrio would love Tyrion: his best feature was diplomacy, no doubt about that. Everyone loved Tyrion. As for Melisandre… well, he had no way of telling what the woman would seek for in a candidate, but all he needed was the other two.

It was hard, but it wasn’t impossible.

They arrived at the Country Club minutes before the clock struck noon. They were welcomed and escorted to the gardens. Tables were scattered all across the lawn. People lounged in the shade of small white pavilions, smoking cigars and drinking expensive liquor. Jaime has spent most of his life in this specific place – much less in his teen years, during which he’d tried a taste of good old rebellion. Perhaps, that was the reason why it all felt oddly stranger to him. People watched them as they passed, and Jaime felt the pressure of their scrutiny.

“Gentlemen, this way please,” the waiter told them when they slowed down to take in the surroundings. Tyrion stole a glance back at Jaime. There was something off in the way everyone was looking at them. Like they knew something Jaime and Tyrion did not.

_ Are they… pitying us? _

As a Lannister, no one had ever pitied him. He had everything.

“Ah, there they are!”

They saw the large bald man beckoning them forward. He was wearing a linen shirt over cargo pants. Sitting beside him, Jaime recognized Olenna Tyrell. The lines etched on the old woman’s skin conveyed a sense of royalty that Jaime had not been lucky enough to see on his mother – all his memories of Joanna were of a younger woman, with smooth skin, plucked too soon.

It was impossible not to notice the other woman. Red flaming hair, dressed in burgundy, her chest adorned with red rubies. She stood out, against the beige background.  _ Melisandre _ , Jaime knew. Her face did not betray a single emotion. She barely even acknowledged their arrival.

“We were expecting you,” Olenna Tyrell said.

And then Tyrion halted, and so did Jaime, only a few feet from the table, in the scorching daylight. The three were not alone. Opposite them sat a black woman with curly hair that reached to her shoulders, dressed in a tailored green suit, with their back on them. She turned, flashed them a smile.

“I’ll be damned,” Tyrion muttered, shaking his head, unbelieving.

Jaime was too preoccupied with the fifth guest at the table. He saw her blonde hair, the side of her face, a flash of green eyes and red lips. She glanced over her shoulders, red talons clinking against the glass.

“Your sister was just telling us her numbers have skyrocketed,” Illyrio said, excitedly.

Jaime couldn’t hide the utter disappointment that threatened to overcome him. She had played him, tricked him, beat him. She had gone and overstepped, crawled between the gaps of his distraction. And now there she was, trying once more to fill the voids within her with more and more and more.

_ For now _ , she had told him in Hull, once he’d asked if he was enough. Jaime saw now she would never be content, never happy. She would always strive for something higher, something bigger, something deeper. Until the wounds were festering and there was no solution but cutting off each infected limb.

 

* * *

 

“Tyrion wait,” Jaime was rushing after his brother down the steps that led back to the parking lot.

“You knew,” Tyrion said, not a question, an accusation.

“I swear, I didn’t,” Jaime said aloud, trying his best to keep up. His legs may have been longer, but his brother was faster. “Tyrion, please, wait, let’s talk about this.”

Tyrion halted  on the last step. He turned around, out of himself. “I’m done talking about this. I’m done talking about her.” Jaime was panting, his brother had never been this angry, not with him “Ever sine she entered your life, she’s been doing nothing but wreaking havoc. I’m done. I’m not giving  _ this _ up for her, Jaime.” He meant the election. Jaime had not expected him to. “If she wants to go to war, I’m ready.”

“If you could just  _ talk _ to her…”

“Don’t you  _ see _ , Jaime? I’m not you!” Tyrion yelled. Jaime fell silent at that. “I know, okay? I know  _ everything. _ I’ve known since the first time I saw you arrange those goddamn flowers for her. Tyrion looked defeated in his rage. “You really think the only reason she has not stabbed you in the back is because she  _ loves  _ you or something?” Jaime despised how he mocked that word,  _ love _ . “Because she doesn’t. She is incapable of loving anyone. She’s a bottomless pit of greed. She will toy with you until you have nothing more to give her, and then she’ll just jump on to whomever offers more.”

“Stop,” Jaime growled, low.

Tyrion lowered his voice. “That is if she doesn’t kill you like she did with the last one.”

Jaime clenched his fists.

“Oh, stop yelling, you’ll alert the whole Club.”

Cersei was coming down the steps, looking positively radiant. She had decided to conceal her gaze behind big sunglasses. Jaime knew she did that when she had something to hide. Or perhaps she was ashamed. He had to hope that she still could feel shame somewhere.

Taena was walking right behind her, carrying a briefcase. She was the one to bring the news: “They said you’re both viable candidates, and they will keep an eye on how public opinion changes over the next few months. They’ll postpone the elections to December. By September, they will need a candidate.”

Tyrion refused to look at Cersei, but shot Jaime a long, hard stare before heading back to the car.

Cersei turned to Taena, “Wait for me in the car, please?”

Jaime took notice of the complicity that ran between the two women. It pissed him off. As much as he loved to see the smile on his sister’s face, he didn’t like it when her smiles were not for him. Jaime watched Taena sway down the remaining few steps and into a different car on the other side. Meanwhile, Cersei had walked down the few steps that separated them, so when he turned around they eyes were level.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like that,” she said. She did not look sorry at all. She looked arrogant and satisfied. “I knew you’d try to stop me.”

Anger. It bubbled, beneath the surface. Jaime did not know how to react. “You knew how much this meant to him,” he murmured, in disbelief. “You knew how much this meant to  _ me _ .”

“Come on, it will be fun!” she tried, switching on the charm. He hated that she knew she was doing that. It made it look fake, artificial. A mask. “We’ll battle it out for a few months and may the best player win!”

Jaime was seething. His fists were shaking. He could not believe her gall, treating this like a childish game. What she had done went beyond that. Not only had she betrayed Tyrion, she had betrayed  _ him _ . “When does it end?” he growled.

“Pardon me?”

“I said,” he took a step forward. “When does it end?”

Cersei’s lips parted. Even behind her sunglasses, he knew she was getting defensive. There was no playfulness in her expression anymore, nor in her voice when she spoke: “It ends when I say it does.”

Jaime hated the twitch in his stomach when she said that. Hated that even though he loathed her right then, all he could think of was pulling her to the car and fucking her. Let Taena see how she moaned whenever she was with him.

Cersei must have sensed that, or it must have been written all over him, because she pouted. “Come on, Jaime,” she mewled. “Let’s not fight about this.” She leaned in, lips inches from his earlobe. Her hands rested on his chest, fingertips grazing through the cotton. “Or if we must, let’s do it without our clothes on.”

With one last smile, she walked back to the car. She opened the car door and turned to him. “You coming or not?” she asked, holding the door open.

He looked over to where Tyrion’s car was still waiting for him.

Jaime hesitated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story to the very end. There are no words to describe how grateful I am. I know I say this every time, but it's quite true. And believe me when I say I can't wait to come back to this story and write more. I'll take a small break, but in a few months I will surely be back. I don't have a date yet, but I am thinking sometime around September or October so... Watch this space!
> 
> Kisses and hugs... but from a safe distance! xoxo   
> Fran


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